Cars, Lies, and Things that Honk in the Night

Posted on June 10, 2015 by John Swinburn

This morning, I’ll arrive at the Toyota dealer in Hot Springs just about the time they open the bays to allow broken cars seeking salvation to enter.  Mine will be one of them. As far as I know, it doesn’t need much in the way of salvation. Just a front end alignment and a once-over to ensure it’s safe to drive the beast. Oh, and confirmation of (and fixing, please) a torn plastic under-fender on the front right side of the car.

A recent “issue” with the under-fender, which had become detached from the car, causes horrible grinding sounds to flow from the front right wheel area. It was, ostensibly, fixed by a Little Rock Toyota dealer service department, but methinks they may have been a little quick to return the car to us, inasmuch as the fix was free. And there’s that noise.

I’ll have the dealership give the car a good going-over, too, to make sure nothing untoward is occurring without my knowledge or consent. They will, of course, want hundreds of millions of American dollars to fix what they find. The likelihood is strong that I will be either unwilling or unable (or both) to pay for what they recommend.  Hence, my subsequent search for a competent mechanic who does not see himself as someone with value equivalent to the salary of an NFL player.

While I’m there, I will look at a few new and used Toyotas. A RAV4. Perhaps a Camry or Avalon. Maybe something smaller. Our recent visit to the Ford dealer, wherein we test drove several cars, led us to look at Consumer Reports. That resulted in the removal of almost every car we test-drove from the list: Ford Escape; Ford Fusion; Hundai Tucson; Nissan Altima; Lincoln MKV.  Well, we had already removed them, but CU cemented the deal.

Interesting tidbit about the Ford dealership.  The nice saleswoman we initially dealt with said, late in the day, she had to leave to pick her daughter up after school.   She left a follow-up message over the weekend, which I returned today.  She apologized that she left before we had finished driving all the cars. “I had to leave because my mother was in the hospital.”  Uh-huh. Write your lies in your little notebook.  Better still, don’t lie.  It’s so much less stressful!

On to another issue. I’ve been watching PBS tonight. The program, an epic by Ken Burns about the Roosevelts, is beyond stunning. I love it!

Of course, like so much in the world today, I wonder whether my thoughts of strippers or men wondering about murder, belong. I’d have to say “Yes.

 

Posted in Cars | 6 Comments

One Hundred Sixty-One

Posted on June 10, 2015 by John Swinburn

Disappointment has the capacity to take a person into a dark little world of his own making. Confronted with the appropriate frame of mind, though, it can simply amplify one’s creativity in finding ways toward attainment.

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Caramel Floods

Posted on June 9, 2015 by John Swinburn

Soft and thick like flash-cooled caramel, my thoughts creep along in slow motion, their hard edges dragged around obstacles that get in their way by the more pliable core within. Thinking is, at times, an exercise in  patience. When the mind slows to a crawl, despite external stimuli and internal urging, the best course of action is inaction.

And, so, I watch my fingers tap on the keyboard, forming words and phrases that indisputably belong to the English language, yet do not belong in the same room with literature. What is literature, though? Literature is writing worthy of being remembered. That’s one definition. This morning, the definition does not apply to the words spilling from my fingers.

Yet, some days I cannot seem to stop the flow of ideas, ideas I find aesthetically and intellectually pleasing. Those are the days when my thoughts have warmed to the extent they are almost liquid. Their sheer volume washes obstacles out of the way in a torrent of impossible strength.

After the torrent, though, comes the clean-up. Picking through the pools to find something, anything, of value; anything to help remember the beauty of the landscape before the flood.

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One Hundred Sixty

Posted on June 9, 2015 by John Swinburn

Writing is lonely, but only if the writer craves company. More often, the writer’s friends and acquaintances reside in his mind, living deep in the recesses of an imagination that can be frightful. My imaginary friends and inaccessible villains hide beneath bolders I create in my head. They sleep in shadows behind the garage, hiding themselves from pain and perfection in low-slung hammocks.

Despite the imaginary friends,  writing can be lonely. It can be debilitating, ugly, ruthlessly lonely. It can shred the connections the writer has with family and friends and even adversaries. Even the writer who doesn’t crave company gets lonely. That’s probably not quite the way it works. That writer lives in loneliness as if it were a comfortable soft shirt. But she cries in the night and wishes for something; she’s not sure just what. He wants an embrace, but he’s not sure whose. Those are the times the razor and the bottle and the needle morph into family, long-time caretakers who’ll give up anything to save themselves from the harsh realities of introspection and recognition.

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Allowing In All Recollections

Posted on June 8, 2015 by John Swinburn

The conversation stirred recollections. Maybe. But were they real?

I spoke of old memories, memories I don’t trust. Did I really visit several strip clubs while I was in high school and in the first years of college, or were those false memories, experiences that I heard about but didn’t live through?

My mind convinced me. They were real memories. I recall going to a strip club not far from my high school, a place open twenty-four/seven, a men’s club where men young and old watched women slowly remove their clothes and dance suggestively around a chrome pole attached to the ceiling and the bar.

That was real.  The colors inside were mostly blue. Blue lights, blue upholstery on the walls. Blue lipstick. But maybe the lipstick was made blue by the lights. I don’t remember, specifically, other women in the club, but I think they were there. Maybe they were girlfriends who couldn’t deliver what their boyfriends wanted in terms of shape and firmness and aptitude for pleasure-making. I find that idea reprehensible. Damn it, those women deserved better than being humiliated by self-obsessed sex-mongers who viewed women, all women, as sex objects.  But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe it was a consensual experience, a prelude to pleasure that could not reach its peak without that erotic trigger, that thrusting, swirling, gyrating attack on a chrome pole. Whatever it was, it was far, far from my definition of decency.

We disagreed, my friend and I, in a recent conversation about who was the “victim” in these intersections between stripper and men shoving ten-dollar-bills into almost absent bikini briefs. I said it was the women. “Victims?,” came the rejoinder. These women were taking the guys for all they were worth, relieving them of their hard-earned money.

I recall a visit to a strip club with a friend, after college. He and his wife lived in an apartment complex across the parking lot and a small street from a strip club. When she went to visit her sister, he invited me to visit the strip club with him. It was ugly from the start. Hard-worn women with thick, leathery skin stripping to reveal hard, brown nipples that looked sharp as sabres. But that view was brief, as a fight broke out in the entry, then spilled into the parking lot. I made the mistake of telling the two men to stop. “Fuck you,” one of them said. Then they both came toward me, angry and ready to re-direct their rage toward the soft little college-boy with no fist and knife experience. I ran inside, ready to kill my friend who had suggested we visit. “It’s just across the parking lot from our apartment,” he said, suggesting it could be nothing but safe.

We survived. It was my last trip to a strip club. I was young, then, and I enjoyed seeing naked women gyrate and suggest, if only tangentially, that they’d like to take me to bed. But I was afraid of learning things I didn’t want to know, of slipping into a psyche so burned and bludgeoned that I could not hope to recover without relying on a needle. So I left, never to return.

These things, real or not, I don’t enjoy remembering.  But even the ugly memories help shape us, so we’re better served by allowing all recollections.

Posted in Memories, Philosophy, Wisdom | 1 Comment

One Hundred Fifty-Nine

Posted on June 8, 2015 by John Swinburn

Skepticism about the words a person utters tends to recede when those words are coupled with comments that can be confirmed. People like me, though, who are deeply skeptical of others from time to time continue to hold onto seeds of doubt that can flourish again and build into full-blown skepticism. When that skepticism is proven to be unfounded, I feel shame, but the appreciation of truth floods from me, a burst dam full of water with no place to go but out!

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Curvature

Posted on June 7, 2015 by John Swinburn

What if I were to write an autobiography? A memoir? A semi-fictional recollection of things I’ve yet to do, something like a friend has already begun?

What if?  Nothing if. It won’t change the curvature of the earth.  But it might, just might, change the curvature of my mind. I’m not beyond learning from mistakes I’ve yet to make, you know. Yes, you know.

 

Posted in Just Thinking | 1 Comment

One Hundred Fifty-Eight

Posted on June 7, 2015 by John Swinburn

‘Honor among thieves’ is a concept built on lies and cobbled together with broken promises and naked self-interest.

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And The Winner Is…

Posted on June 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

Well, I read The Story of Steve during the read-around today. It got a few laughs.  That’s really all it’s good for, which is not a bad thing. Sometimes silly whimsy is just what the doctor ordered.

After the banquet this evening, I learned the fate of the remaining three entries I submitted for contests in the Arkansas Writers’ Conference. Two of three fell by the wayside yesterday, the other got an honorable mention.  Today, two of three (a short story and a poem) got no mention at all.  But I was very happy that my short story Cameron Bay, was awarded first place; along with that recognition came a $50 cash prize.

I enjoyed the conference. Now, though, I am beat.

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Contestables

Posted on June 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

A poem I wrote a few months ago, A Night on the Town, received 1st Honorable Mention in the Marie Barton Memorial Poetry Award contest at the Arkansas Writers’ Conference yesterday. At the moment, I don’t remember what the contest prompt was, but I think it made reference to something along the lines of “write a poem with a theme of ‘night.'” 1st Honorable Mention is fourth down the line from First Place, Second Place, and Third Place, if memory serves.  I have no idea how many entrants were judged in the contest.

Inasmuch as I consider myself a poet only to the extent that I occasionally write a poem (but I am not a ‘serious’ poet), I was pleased to have ‘placed’ in the contest.  My prose, though, is what I hope might shine.  My short story, Funeral Money, didn’t place. I don’t remember that prompt, either. Today, three more contests in which I have entries will be announced: Gouda Hash (a silly whimsical poem that I suspect has no chance of winning); A Lesson in Allegiance (a short story written specifically for the contest, themed on “patriotism,”), and Cameron Bay, a short story I wrote for a another contest but did not submit to that other contest.

I found it interesting that most contest awards included up to six ‘winners.’ The contest sponsored by the Village Writers’ Club had only three winners; First Place, Second Place, and Third Place. The contest chair commented about that; “we asked that each contest name three winners, with additional honorable mentions, but they said ‘no’ and named only the three.” (Or words to that effect.)

Fifty people entered the event’s twenty-six contests, contributing more than 450 entries (if the notes I made yesterday during the awards announcements were correct).  The names of several entrants were read over and over and over again, suggesting to me these folks both write well and know what the sponsors are looking for in submissions. I’m not sure I am likely to continue to submit entries; I have mixed feelings about it.

The read-arounds, though, were interesting. I rather enjoyed reading Sliding Toward the Edge yesterday. I may read The Story of Steve today. Or I may not.

Posted in Writing | 1 Comment

Writerly Things

Posted on June 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

I read a short story during yesterday afternoon’s read-around at the writers’ conference. I’d read it before, recently, at the local club’s program, L’Audible Art. I think I did a better job this time around; I think it was generally well-received. Though I have to admit it was not as good as some of the pieces read by other registrants; there was honest talent in the room yesterday.

The conference has been good so far, offering enough insights and ideas to warrant the expense of time and money required to participate. Though a bit of self-promotion by a speaker or two wounded the event a bit yesterday, all in all I found it interesting. Some of the most interesting pieces, though, were in casual conversations with other participants. And I was able to confirm the willingness of an exceptionally bright author and social media guru to speak to the local club soon, though she’s spoken before.

Yesterday was mostly business, in one way or another, but last night a group of six of us went out for a fun dinner. Conversations, throughout the day and into dinner last night ranged from serious to bizarre; I like a little bizarre from time to time (as if that weren’t obvious from what I write here).

More today!

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One Hundred Fifty-Seven

Posted on June 6, 2015 by John Swinburn

Solving complex problems takes a willingness to explore impossibilities as if they were possible.

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Being Early as It Is…

Posted on June 5, 2015 by John Swinburn

It’s one thing to be awake in the wee hours of the morning, inside the house. It’s quite another to venture into the darkness outside the door, where all manner of wild beasts may be prowling about; raccoons, skunks, foxes, armadillos, and other creatures too odd to imagine, even for one so thoroughly awake as I.

Yet that’s what I am about to do.  I haven’t had much time to think this morning, having arisen at 3:20. My best thinking does not take place in the shower, so I did not get my mind going while washing my body. Shaving takes too much concentration to allow for thought, else I might slit my own throat. So I didn’t think much about what I would write. Yet here I am, on a keyboard, wondering whether wisdom, or even trivial blather, will escape my brain and flow through my fingers to the computer keyboard. It appears that will not happen doesn’t it?

Why, when the opportunity is ripe for flashes of brilliance, does the mind fail to provide those flashes? If I knew, I’d write the reasons right here. But I do not know. I am at a loss for words. My thoughts are mushy and soft and easily diluted with thoughts of coffee and congee, neither of which have graced me with their presence. Wait!  I wrote, just a few minutes ago, of breakfast in the wee hours, something I have withheld from myself thus far today. So, what might that tell me? Coffee! I could make coffee!  And I believe I will!

And then I will ponder what words might escape my brain the next time I visit a willing keyboard.

 

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One Hundred Fifty-Six

Posted on June 5, 2015 by John Swinburn

Breakfast in the wee-est of the wee hours is a delight few experience with sufficient frequency.

Posted in Ruminations | 4 Comments

Car Talk

Posted on June 4, 2015 by John Swinburn

We looked at cars. We drove some. One new one (a 2015 Ford Escape). Mostly a year or two or three old. We did not fall in love. The salesperson was beside herself, but she was able to contain it, almost. That was Tuesday.

Still, nothing certain. I’ve settled on what I want, though. I want a pickup, a convertible, that gets very high gas mileage, has a super smooth but very sporty ride; a vehicle that absolutely defines luxury. It has to be cheap, too. We’re still looking.

Even decent car salespeople annoy. Like the woman who practically climaxed while talking about a Nissan Altima, saying, “This is just a remarkable car! It’s an incredible deal. You just can’t find a nicer car than this.” But when I asked, she had no idea about the price.  “I’ll have to check.” But that was nothing.

After driving the Escape, a Hundai Tucson, a Ford Fusion, and the Nissan Altima, we were ready to go. “Wait, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this one. It’s like the car I drive.  A 2012 Lincoln MKZ. It is PERFECT! Low miles, great price, luxury like you can’t believe!”

Her partner in crime, a woman trained (I assume) to salvage buyers leaving without a car, brought around the Lincoln. “Take it for a drive.”  We did.

I could imagine the original salesperson, watching us drive away in the Lincoln: “Oh my god, I’m going to…” But, alas, we weren’t blow away by the three year old doddering luxury car suited more to über geezers than to us. The salesperson came so close to ecstasy, but we spoiled it by leaving in our own car.

We will drive a Toyota or two, a Honda, maybe another Hundai. We’re in no huge rush. The greatest feeling of control when looking to buy a car is knowing that I can and will walk away if the car and the deal are not both right. None of those cars were right. But, then, I’m not absolutely certain I’m going to find my smooth- and sporty-riding, fuel-efficient convertible pickup that exudes luxury, at least not for a price I’m willing to pay.

Posted in Cars | 6 Comments

One Hundred Fifty-Five

Posted on June 4, 2015 by John Swinburn

When you wake up in the morning and look into the mirror, give yourself a boost. Smile. Give yourself a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation. Sing, if that’s your thing. Days that start off on a positive note are better than those that don’t. Yeah, I also have always thought self-affirmations were BS; I was at least partially wrong.  Maybe completely. Certainly somewhat.

Posted in Ruminations | 1 Comment

Revealing What’s Underneath

Posted on June 3, 2015 by John Swinburn

You may not want to read this. Especially if you’re not on a high note at the moment. Sometimes, I just write stuff that can’t help but ruin a mood.

There’s no question, I sometimes write some pretty strange stuff. The scenes (or vignettes, as I like to call them) drift toward the utterly bizarre, from time to time. I have asked myself what I find attractive or thought-provoking about such jolting oddness. My answers range from unintelligible to unprintable. Ultimately, I think, it’s that I am both afraid of, and attracted to, the unusual. Things I don’t understand frighten and mesmerize me. I suspect I write about such peculiarities because I’m hoping someone else finds them appealing, too, and that person (or those people) will stumble upon what I’ve written and say to themselves, “hey, I’d like to have a conversation with that guy.” I understand, of course, they might insist on being armed, just in case I’m a psycho.

Seriously, I do wonder—beyond my ready explanations. What is it about the unexpected, the bizarre, the slightly twisted and bent, I find so appealing? Maybe it’s just a matter of thinking such things will catch the attention of passers-by. If I write something crazy, maybe people will stop to look and listen and find out what’s behind it.  The embodiment of loneliness, looking for an eyeball and a heart. But it could be pure, unbridled egotism; “look at me, I’m a weirdo who can shock you!” I hope that’s not it, but it could be.

I know I’ve written before about figuring out what’s “in there,” behind my masks and my protective cladding, but I always return to that. I think I have things I want to say that I’m afraid to write.  Holly, if you’re reading this, your idea of a nom de plume is under serious consideration. It’s not just fear; it’s ignorance. I don’t know, 61 years in, who I am. That’s approximately pathetic, don’t you think?

There are things about me only I know and only I will ever know. Would they shock the average guy on the street?  Probably not. But they’re private, nonetheless. Would they shock people who know me “inside out?” No, I think not, because they see my shifts in mood and attitude and expressions.  So how are they private?  Why are they private? I have to keep pieces of me for myself. I just have to. I suppose some of the pieces are too painful to share. Maybe they are just too ugly.  Only an angelic soul-mate, whose ability to keep secrets would rival a corpse, could ever know.

Pulling back the covers, as it were, could reveal nothing but a crusty scab, an ugly deformation worthy of nothing more than a bottle of alcohol and a rasp.

I guess my mood has shifted away from where it might have gone to where it is. For that, I am eternally sorry. I’ll try to do better.

I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your day. I truly did not intend it. But I’m so damn good at it, I can’t stop.

Posted in Depression, Emotion, Just Thinking, Philosophy, Writing | 3 Comments

One Hundred Fifty-Four

Posted on June 3, 2015 by John Swinburn

Certainty is inversely correlated with wisdom and vice versa.

Posted in Ruminations | 1 Comment

Face-to-Face Bloggery

Posted on June 2, 2015 by John Swinburn

Let’s see, now, I’ve met, face-to-face, several people through social media. Teresa. Robin and Roger. Tara. Juan. Kathy. Kathy. Cari.  Soon, I’ll meet another, Holly.

In spite of my occasional rants about how social media tends to be a vacuum that sucks the heart and soul out of people who, otherwise, might be decent, intelligent human beings, I’ve been fortunate to meet some very nice people in the ether. They’re all intelligent, creative, inquisitive people who like to think! They’re all people who appreciate and value the use of language as a tool for connection. It’s not the technology that attracts them to social media, it’s the potential to establish rapport with other people, people who share some important commonalities with them.

So there you go.

Today is the first day of pottery for the week. Then, a one-day break. Then another day of pottery.

And that, gentle people, is all I have to say for the moment. Now, I have to let my mind rest.

 

Posted in Communication, Friendship, Just Thinking, Writing | 1 Comment

One Hundred Fifty-Three

Posted on June 2, 2015 by John Swinburn

Some days, I think I’d have made a pretty damn good singer-songwriter if I could write music and carry a tune.

Posted in Ruminations | 1 Comment

Circles

Posted on June 1, 2015 by John Swinburn

My mind is skipping like a rock on a choppy pond; just one wave sends that stone plunging to the bottom.  I’ve been reading, here and there, about topics of interest, but I can’t keep my mind on what I’m reading long enough for it to sink it. Why is it, then, that my train of thought plunges beneath the water, but knowledge skips away like a flat stone, expertly thrown, on a smooth lake?

This morning, my thoughts have skittered along, visiting the potential value of meditation. My mind could use a rest, I think; maybe that’s what I need to regain focus. But, then, an idea for a novel invades my brain.  Soon, though, I abandon it when I realize the amount of research and dedicated writing time required, especially when the story so quickly loses its appeal.

Many of my ideas for longer works of fiction are like acquaintances; they are interesting for a short while, but too much time with them becomes an unwelcome intrusion. A long piece, something that might evolve into a novel, has to be a close friend with whom I want to spend a great deal of time. I have many acquaintances; friends are as rare as extinct birds.

Perhaps the problem is this: too much energy expended on the technical aspects of writing and not enough on the emotional aspects. Ultimately, it’s the story, not the ways it’s written. The story must come first. The story, not the writing, captures the imagination. If it weren’t so, those who master the mechanical processes of writing would be the best writers; the technicians would have huge, devoted audiences. Yet the way it’s written gives the story life; so it is about the way it’s written, after all.

I’m not sure I’m enough of a story-teller to be an excellent writer. I like to write—I have to write—but I think in vignettes, not in plots. Weaving disparate vignettes together may not be the best way to write a long piece of fiction, but writing those vignettes is a guilty pleasure.

There’s been talk lately of a writers’ retreat, a several-day-long trek to a place called The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow. I want that. I want time dedicated exclusively to writing, punctuated by meals or evening gatherings with other writers. It takes time to cast off the veils that hide who we are; that might be just the ticket.

Until then, whenever “then” is, I’ll continue to slog away, writing here and there and wondering where it’s going and why I keep passing by the same sign post, over and over and over again.

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One Hundred Fifty-Two

Posted on June 1, 2015 by John Swinburn

I begin the sixth month of the year 2015, wondering what Earth will look like two thousand fifteen years from now on June 1, 4030. The global floods of 3099 and 4006 will probably alter its appearance considerably, but the asteroid strike on May 30, 4029 is apt to have the greatest effect on the appearance of this little planet. Of course, by then, the concept of dates will have long since become a quaint anachronism, what with time displacement and such.

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Regaining the Sparkle

Posted on May 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

I watched as the headlights on the old Camry dulled over the years.  Sand and grit and bugs and road debris stole the shine and ruined the sparkle. I polished the outer plastic shells with modest success a few years ago, but over time those clear headlight covers became translucent. Later, even professional kits that promised to return their original luster failed to revive them. Lately, those once pristine, absolutely clear lenses had become almost opaque.

A quote in the neighborhood of $500 changed my mind about having the Toyota dealer replace them, but the beasts needed replacing.  So I looked online for replacement parts and instructions on how to undertake the task. Finally, a few days ago, the headlights I ordered online for about $145 (for the pair, including shipping) arrived.  A day or two later, I watched a YouTube instruction video on how to remove and replace headlights on a 2002 Camry, then set out to do the work.

It took an hour and a half, (but should have taken less than one). I discovered after replacing both sets of headlights that I had two extra bolts.  A partial re-do corrected my oversight.   Despite going overtime, the deal is done. Finally, the car’s eyes no longer looks like they have badly neglected cataracts.

My scraped knuckles and bruises will be fine. My ego is intact, thanks to discovering where those two extra bolts went. A few scars and a little pain are reasonable exchanges for $355 in savings.

Posted in Cars | 1 Comment

One Hundred Fifty-One

Posted on May 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

I’ve noticed that the harder a person argues against someone’s strongly held beliefs, the less willing that target of the argument is to accept the premises offered as truth. Oh, my, is there a correlation, or is it just coincidental?

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Someone Else’s Tastes

Posted on May 30, 2015 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, I sat at the dining table, looking out at the trees swaying in the breeze and the ranch down below.  I was eating lunch, which consisted of a tin of smoked mackerel drizzled with Sriracha sauce and spears of cucumbers. I realized, just as I finished the herring, it was extremely similar to the lunch the day before. The previous day’s lunch was a tin of brisling sardines dressed up with my homemade jalapeño paste, a tomato cut in wedges, and cucumber spears. I asked myself, Who eats this sort of lunch with such frequency? Normally, that would have ended that; a rhetorical question posed in passing. But it did not. The question evolved from a rhetorical question into an interesting daydream.

Who would, day after day, sit and stare at the world outside his window while eating tins of smoked fish and munching on crisp vegetables? My answer, sprung from my imagination and complemented with a little internetical magic, was this: a Norwegian fisherman by the name of Kolbjørn Landvik, a man who kept to himself and had no family, except for his dog. He lived a solitary life on the Norwegian Sea in a tiny fishing village called Reine near the tip of the Lofoten Archipelago.

Kolbjørn died at sea, the victim of bad luck and drowning. He caught the heel of his boot in the anchor chain, just as he dropped the ninety pound piece of iron into icy cold water. The chain spun around his leg in an instant, so tight it drove links straight through his pants and into his flesh. He was alone on the boat, far from land. No one saw him dragged by that chain into the Norwegian sea.  No one but his dog, Albrikt, missed him. No one thought of him for all these years until yesterday.

That’s when I realized a small piece of the universe that once was Kolbjørn found its way through the cosmos to me.  In me. I do not mean that I am the reincarnation of Kolbjørn Landvik.  Just molecules, microscopic bits and pieces of Kolbjørn ended up in me, purely by coincidence, out of the randomness of the universe.

We share just a few traits. The tendency to eat tins of fish and cucumbers for lunch. The penchant for staring out the window and letting the imagination run amok. Kolbjørn Landvik’s window, though, did not give him a view of trees and farmland.

His tiny cabin, right on the water, looked westward across Reinevågen Inlet. When he wasn’t fishing, he spent his time looking at the water, watching the birds, and painting. Dozens of oil paintings covered the walls; dozens more, stacked on their edges, filled boxes. Almost every day around noon, he sat at the worn wooden table beneath the row of windows across the front of the cabin, where he opened a tin of smoked fish. He pulled a cucumber from a cold-sack where he stored vegetables and sliced it with the pocket knife he kept in his fishing trousers. If he had crackers or bread, he might eat them, but it wasn’t necessary. Smoked fish and a crisp vegetable were perfectly satisfactory.

He left that cabin one morning in April 1921 and sailed his 31-foot mackerel boat north up the inlet, then south when he got to open water and, finally, west out into the Norwegian Sea. That was the last time anyone heard from, or about, Kolbjørn until yesterday, when his habits and his memories invaded my thoughts.

So, that’s where my lunchtime habit came from.  Thank you, Kolbjørn Landvik, for enjoying a can of smoked fish for lunch. I might not be so grateful if you enjoyed eating raw frogs, instead.

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