Skrivebergen
I find writing to be easier than it used to be. Maybe it is just the fact that the tram has become my safe-haven for writing. 20 minutes of writing each day (or more like 10). Still, it’s more than nothing. Most of what I write I end up never posting on my blog. Some things I do. Usually, when something is a result of these writings, I end up not having a second look on it, just making do and then publishing. I tend to find polishing right after writing it not to be particularly fun, however if I look over it weeks or even months I have written it, I feel at liberty to cast aside whichever formulations end up not working. I can polish it (as much as you can polish a turd at least) until it is at least a little better. Maybe I become a better writer as a result, maybe not. The ominous “they” (Dasman) do say that you get better with practise, so maybe it is in sorts a kind of elementary truth, one of the very elements of our experience with phenomenons. Maybe that is just some philosophical gobbledygook. Your guess is as good as mine.
It impacts though, the almost automatic writing on the keyboard as I look away at the night sky of Bergen. No matter where you look in the city (especially on the tram), you end up looking at a mountainous view that would be postcard material in any other city, here it’s just home. Home. Just as I haven’t felt at home in my writing for a long time, Bergen was for the longest time not home for me. Ironically, while I live in the city, I am more cut of from every other thing that related me back to Bergen previously. Yet, it is now home. Mine. Most I speak to weren’t born here as I were, but they’re just as much outsiders as I am. I would question why barnevernet would ever take me out of this city, though I believe I recently learned the answer to that. Still, in Bergen, it offers me these 20 minutes of calm and opportunity to write something.