Cloudberry
The yellow colour can’t lie. Far,
over there, it must be one peering amongst the moss. The difficult thing is to keep calm. Do remember: walk! Don’t run! Tell yourself: “It’s just one of those old
berries growing over there”
Oh! No!! I’m running. Can’t help…
It’s gold! It’s like the mountains’ sex!
You want to crawl and eat it direct from the ground. Should I do that? It’s wet as it always is on the ground of a
Norwegian mountain. I can’t crawl. My body’ll get soaking wet and a trickle of
overclean water will sneak into my boots.
A lover wouldn’t do that to you (?)
I’ll remain upright and detached.
I do look very detached, don’t I?
That’s because I’m a Norwegian.
I’m close to having a mountain ecstasy as all Norwegians do after less
than a week in a fucking Norwegian mountain, and yet, I do look detached. Ain’t it incredible? You don’t know, you, stupid frog, what it is
to be a hundredth generation’s Norwegian wood?
I talk, I talk, actually I don’t talk.
I think I talk. I write that I
thought I was telling. I write what I
thought I’d tell the stupid froggies.
That’s a proof that I’m not a complete Norwegian. They’d be having an ecstasy by now; they
wouldn’t even know about it. In fact, Norwegians live only when they’re having
an ecstasy in the Norwegian Troll-mountain.
The rest of the time, they’re being nice, or they’re being clever (more
than the rest of the world), or maybe they’re being just (a Lutheran
obsession). If you use statistics, the
most probable thing is they’ll be drunk. But
it’s only within the trolly, trolly, magic mountain that they ARE.
Are, Argh, Gosh! My mouth is
full. Yes, it’s magic. I’m having it… A fucking cloudberry
ecstasy. Who said “mordre les nuages”
over here? Did YOU try the cloudberry
trip you too? In fact it is not complete
if you don’t say the word in Norwegian:
MULTER
“Multer” make it last longer.
Actually, I think my life is only one long, big, swampy golden ripe
MULTE. I never love anybody. I just love.
It’s a “multe”-state. Yes, I
believe I’ve created the multe way of life.
It’s like now: I go to bed. The neighbours’
eight children are running above my head and tomorrow I’ll go to my dead boring
job, driving my stinky Opel (that isn’t black, just so that you know) and take
the bloody dog out before and wait to make it enter the flat back till Misses
Garcia has yet again told me: “It’s a nice dog, isn’t it?” (Fucking peluche!) And all that, and the coffee poring
over. Never mind! I just need to lie down and start writing. Straightaway I bring you to the absolute
cloudberry Norwegian ecstasy within the Troll Mountain. Do
you feel as life is profoundly joyful?
Oh yes! You, Inconnu, you who followed me, I cloudberry you forever.
Veronika, 26/05/2008
