Saturday, February 14, 2009
From now on I'm supposed to be talking to an entirely new person.
Normally that doesn't faze me. I'm good at meeting new people. In a group of strangers, I can chitchat with everyone for quite some time and I don't get shy until afterwards, when everyone else is warming up.
But this new person... I don't know. What do you say to a tiny someone who is growing inside of you? Sorry about the gas?
He or she is in there right now, and is at fourteen weeks the size of a lemon, squinting and hiccuping and moving about, and apparently: listening. The sound of my voice is supposed to be reassuring. So what do I say?
Well, there are many things I'm going to tell you about, little one. So many cool things to find out about nature and people and history and everything. But maybe the one sentence I'm looking most forward to saying to you is this:
'In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.'
It may not seem like much at first glance, but trust me, it's like a hidden, wrought iron gate that you suddenly discover while walking along an old, overgrown hedge. Or it's like a little window in a stone tower or an old barn that suddenly reveals the most glorious view.
On the other side of that gate and that window is the realm of stories, kid, the most wonderful part of this or any world.
I just can't wait to show you that.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Ah, Teodor. What a complete little weirdo. But he was the first to charm his way to new owners and can relax until the time comes to move there.
I said relax, Teo, not make your eyes come dangerously close to popping out! What's that? That is your relaxed face?
Saturday, February 7, 2009
It's snowing like crazy in Oslo today, and I've been hiding inside with a wide selection of cuteness.
Here's Isvan curling up next to me. He's much bigger than the others, and doesn't look much like them, either. But he's beautiful and very friendly and the only one that wakes up with a purr.
And here's funny little Niklas, who keeps apart from the others, growling and yelping to his imaginary friends (or maybe he can se fairies?) and sleeping all alone in his little play tower. Unless Line is around, because then he climbs into her lap and stays there. These are her photos, and you can tell that he's trying to reach through the lens to make her understand that she is all his, and he is all hers. True love.
Friday, February 6, 2009
I said earlier that the kittens didn't fit their names, well, in terms of being much like the characters they were named for. I have to take it back. They've grown more alike them with each passing day. Here's an update on these three darlings:
Gwen is no longer timid and scared, but full of sass and ninja courage. She sneaks along the floor and is the first to try any challenge and she throws the biggest of the boys to the floor. Easily. Just like Gwen would.
Mirja grows prettier and prettier and was the first to learn how to wash. In fact, she is so convincing in her role that I've decided to change Mirja in the book from a beautiful softpaw to a beautiful petling. A pretty white cat, of course.
Little Balthasar never was very wrong for his part, except for the fact that he is healthy and strong, unlike his poor namesake. Thank god! He plays with the girls, under the firm leadership of Gwen, of course, and is so beautiful that it's almost too much. That, at least, is quite as it should be.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I had a very nice dream about cows the other night.
(My brother wasn't in it, but he can serve as illustration since I miss him a lot. What does Latin America have that I don't? No, don't answer that.)
The dream was set in a lush, Norwegian summer countryside, with green fields and red barns and white farmhouses and crooked, old fences. There were wildflowers by the dirt road I was walking along, and buckets full of fresh milk waiting in small sheds to be picked up by the dairy truck. There were long, soft straws of grass tickling my calves and pebbles sneaking into my sandals.
I stopped here and there to pick strawberries or visit funny little shops where they had paisly fabrics and wicker baskets and homemade fudge. But whenever I lingered for a little while, three friendly cows showed up to nudge me on. I would laugh at them and tell them to be patient, be patient, and they would look at me serenely with moist, gentle, brown eyes, and I would walk on.
Where we were going, I never found out (though I have a theory that I will keep to myself a little while longer.) But that's okay. Summer will be here soon enough.