The picture above may seem familiar, since I posted it yesterday. Today I want to talk a bit about it – about what is most perceptible to the naked eye, and about what is not. In particular, about the things that flow from one to another—from the “is” to the “isn’t clear” (but is there nonetheless). How physical evidence out in the social stream provides information that announces thoughts and tendencies and behaviors of people and how this information tells us, by extension, about the society that people live in. And how such information may also communicate whether or not such a society is writ small, or large: on a micro or a macro scale.

But we are getting a little ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we start at the top, which is to say, with the breasts. Because that is, after all, where this disquisition begins.

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—tjmHolden

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After a long trip to the cold(er) North-East(ern) territories, I’ve taken this week to dry out in the South(west). Europe for America is not an equal exchange for many, but with a cough rattling around in my chest and phlegm coating my airways, at this point I’ll take it. Besides, there’s JACK-FM, where “we play what we want” and, therefore, the morning drive from my here to my kid’s there is punctuated by “The Boys of Summer” by Don Henley, “Desire” by U2, “Hold Your Head Up” by Argent, “Crying” by Aerosmith, and “Don’t Take Me Alive” by Steely Dan.

Yeah, with JACK pulsing from the speakers, I could stay busy for minutes on end, slamming the steering wheel and wailing in the direction of my dash. Not a care in the world. Life in paradise.

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Although I’m here now, I’m reminded of the place from whence I’ve come. The last stop on this peripatetique‘s mystical mastery tour.

That stop was not the home town In which I now sit recuperating; rather it was Oslo, on my final day. Then, it was in a public garden—an amazing park featuring over 200 statues, friezes, molds, gates, grates, and figures designed by the twentieth century Norwegian sculptor, Gustav Vigeland.

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—tjmHolden

My time in Oslo is coming to a close. Although I’ve exited and entered this hotel room a combined 23 times over the course of seven days, and visited here and there, to and fro, it seems as if I haven’t even been in this country for more than a couple of blinks.

True peripatetic lifestyle.

I have a few more things to tell you about before I officially shut the door, but before all is said and done I will be boarding a plane to elsewhere. My narrative voice always a few steps behind my processing mind, which is yet again a few steps in arrears of the experiencing body.

That too, part of the peripatetic way.

The body (preceding mind – both proceeding experience) will board a succession of planes (in fact) that will transport me from Oslo through Copenhagen, to Tokyo, then onto the U.S. Man, that isn’t a trip I would even wish upon my worst enemy . . . well, actually . . .  wait up on that one. Come to think of it, that might be just sweet . . .

Assuming it was a full-up flight and my own worst enemy’s seatmate decided to get violently sick all over his (or her) lap. Oh, and both bathrooms closest to him (or her) got backed up and there was a long, long, looooooooonnnggg line to the others.

Oh, and one more thing: s/he didn’t have a change of clothing in her/his carry-on and there was still 7 hours of flight time to go.

Yeah, then maybe I would wish this trip on my own worst enemy.

Of course . . . me being such a nice guy, I really don’t have any of those. Me possessing a nature that is so kind, generous and sweet. A character you all can immediately apprehend and appreciate reading this blog. (Can’t you?)

Anyway, what I was going to tell you before I got diverted with all these fantasy musings was some of the things that surprised me about life over here. Things I would not really have predicted (in my cultural myopia), but that I have noted in my 11 or 12 trips out of my room.

There are about 6—or maybe even 16—but I will try to keep it around ten. And count them down from lesser to greater gee-wizness, like this . . .

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—tjmHolden

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What I learn about Munch, as I meander through his museum, is that he wasn’t the happiest of people. The paintings and sketches and woodblock prints suggest as munch (HA! You wondered when I would get that pun in. Sooner better than later, I say. Now we can get on with the serious business of dissecting—if not flailing—the artiste.).

About this I won’t complain, though: admission to the Munch Museum is free(!), which means that it costs nothing to wallow in the man’s self-absorption. And, in case the audience is too daft to catch the drift, there is a placard midway through the serpentine gallery with a quote from the master saying so. It is almost as if the guy was seated at dinner with Shiho and me the night before, answering questions about art. Ultimately he responds: “. . . art grows from joy and sorrow. But mostly sorrow.”

Then Shiho would turn to me (or more likely I to her) and say: “this guy sounds like he grew up with Woody Allen. You don’t know whether you are laughing because he is so damned pessimistic or because he is so darned right!”

Whatever the case, he is definitely earnest in his convictions. For in the feature-length film that plays in an endless loop in the darkened theater (barren, but with capacity to accommodate 200) in the basement, the narration trumpets the same motif. Reading from his diaries, Munch’s voice-over intones: “I inherited two things from my family: tuberculosis and mental illness.”

Not a very promising combination, even under the best of circumstances.

Not to mention that the guy spent most of his winters in Norway.

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—tjmHolden

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“What does one do in Oslo in March?” I asked Shiho, a 34 year-old doctoral student far, far from home. Home, it turns out, is the same place I now hail from, so in the unfolding scheme of things, it turned out that Shiho and I have a number of people and places in common. A lot to talk about, we remark. And although it provides a starting point, it quickly transforms into disingenuousness, as we mutually utter breathy “I can’t believe the luck” sentiments each time the conversation wanes.

The truth of the matter is that in this global age, the “gee wiz, it’s-a-small-world” angle has been worn nearly to the nub. With each passing day, as the networks accrete and the opportunities amass, all those degrees of separation are winnowing.

That said, it is somewhat of a coincidence worthy of comment that Shiho has selected to leave our mutual hometown and come all the way to Oslo to work on an area of research that I also dabble in—gender in sports. It is probably an irony worthy of observation that we’ve never bumped into one another pursuing this common passion before.

Now, in a bustling restaurant in Oslo, where the beers go for 8 bucks a pop, we have.

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—tjmHolden

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Yuko Uchima is a long way from home. Originally from Okinawa, Yuko is now in Oslo – by way of Akita, a medium-sized city in Northern Japan. I bring Yuko up, in association with this trip to Norway, not only because she was one of the first people I spoke with for any prolonged time when I arrived here, but also because of her name. It is rather rare in Japan – virtually unused, according to her – and its kanji work themselves out into the delightfully oxymoronic “inside the in-between”.

I mean, it isn’t quite “inside the outside”, but it is closer than just about any other conjunction of consonants and vowels generally could be. 

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—tjmHolden