Life in the rear-view mirror

Life in the rear-view mirror

tirsdag 3. desember 2013

Better late than never...?

I have a few times claimed to have photographic memory, but only in the most diluted sense, or only in a very selective way. I remember all my photos, every single one of the aproximately 20 000 pix I've got on my harddrive. If I see a picture of a flower or a few strands of grass, I can tell you where it was taken, why I was there, who I was with, what the weather was like etc. Sometimes when I drive by some town I have never stopped in, I see a house or a tree and some image I snapped through the windscreen 4 years ago pops into my head. I can probably tell you what softwear I used to edit it too, but then again there are memorable difrenses between Gimp, Adobe Lightroom, Photoshop and MS Picture Manager. But enough about that. I figured I'd try something new. I selected one of my many pictures randomely, and will now attempt to «remember» the circomstances of it. But I perfer to remember it creatively... and fill in the blanks... and by this I mean that I will probably just make something up. I mean.... come on. Who wants to read some randome day in the life of me? Nobody!

BTW: This text appears not to contain even a single typo, so I suspect Open Office Writer has finally given up this spell checking thing completely :P

So here it goes! A rainy evening in November! Or maybe some other time. My computer claims it was taken in the afternoon of Christmas day, 2008, but that doesnt seem right. Anyway, here it is, along with a wholy madeup story:



Bam, bam, bam goes the rain. And it wount hold up even for a moment to let you breath, to let you think or to let you see properly. I wish it would at the very least remind me, remind me why I'm out here, alone. I'm already soaked through and it's not over yet. There are still stuff to be done and steps to be taken. And still... My flashlight finds an abandoned skateboard. Something happend here, I'm sure. Someone left here in panic I imagine, or not by their own force. I paint picture of devils and demons in my mind and systematically neglect the lighter, bland scenarios. Soon, before I move on, this is burned into my memory specifically defined as a dark oman, a most sadistic hint at what's next. Around me the dark is getting denser, consuming my surroundings slowly. My flashlight is getting more pircing.

I'm it, the most visible thing for miles.

Whoever's out there have me at such a disadvantage that it's laughable. The wind is making all the creapy noises that wind makes and the trees are dancing in solute. I'm not laughing. Definetly not. I turn off my flashlight, my beacon of hope. I'm on my own now. I want to run. Instead I hunch down so noone will catch my siluette against the still bluish sky. I sit, I watch, I wait. The dark can't last for ever, right?

But, hey! What am I doing out here? The world ain't directed by Stephen King and if the devil even exists, I suppose he ain't on my case full time.
Or maybe it's a she?
Maybe it's me!
I exhale.
A wistle through exposed teeth.
Wouldnt that be neat!
But now I should probably go.
Because there's reason to believe it isnt so.

I pull my hood over my head and stalk off. You'd think if I had any extrordenairy dark powers I'd be onto it by now. I wouldnt hold my breath for such a revelation.

fredag 18. oktober 2013

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

På gjenngrodde stiar gjennom skogen ferdast det to jenter. Nokon som ikkje veit betre kunne spørre seg kva i alle dagar to framande utanbygds ifrå skulle ha rota seg inn i skogen her for. Men for dei fleste ein kunne komme til å støyte på her ville svaret vare nærliggande, både i sinnet og med sitt prangande, fysiske nærvær. Vi har nok alle høyrt dei mørke historiene. Dei sanne, dei modifiserte og dei som er rein fabrikasjon. Men ingen kan vel påstår at dei veit kor grensa mellom fakta og fiksjon går? Sikker kan bare ein idiot vere, for ingen veit vel alt?



Denne plassen er altså et tidligare asyl, eller psykiatrisk sjukehus. No for tida seies det å vere heimsøkt, og ikkje bare litt heller. Det er jo lett nok å forstå at folk kan komme til slike konklusjonar bare av å sjå på det. Det ser jo ut som om vi har hamna på settet til ein grøssar. Sett i samanheng med psykiatrihistorias mange tilfelle av lobotomering, brutal sjokkbehandling, tvangstrøyer osv legg det seg endå eit lag dysterheit over plassen. Dei fleste av oss kan bare fantasere om korleis innsida av dei tyngste avdelingane på ein psykiatrisk instutisjon ser ut, og vi har jo sett filmar som Madhouse, Shutter Island og Gjøkeredet. Men la oss gløyme dei når vi no skal rote oss inn i ei sånn bygning og heller tenke på Elling. Elling er ein fiiiin film om folk som ikkje er heilt i vater som fikk meg til å le og grine gledestårer av gjenkjenning. La meg tenke på den i staden for å sjå for meg scener frå Ondskapens Hotell, Fritt Vilt og... Motorsagmasakeren. Bruk av motorsag er her jo i grunn tydelige tegn på...



Her er vi altså igjen... framfor oss har vi et gigantisk, raudbrunt hus. Tidligare besøkande har omtalt det som det verste av denne dystre samlinga, men vi har allereie besøkt bygg A, og bygg B er vi overraskande nok blitt einige om å holde oss unna, bygg C, D og G er fortsatt I drift (og praktisk nok skult bak en vegg av lauv), så då gjenstår kun bygg E.



Bygget er omringa av et 2 meter høgt gjerde. Bare synd for dei som satt det opp at det er av typen anleggsgjerde, usikra og dermed ubrukelig. For øyeblikket er det dessuten opent. Så vi spasserar rett inn. Vi holde oss sjølvsagt for gode for innbrot og hærverk, og på Lier er det slett ikkje nødvendig. I løpet av sommaren har her openbart vore stor trafikk for no er samtlege dører til nettopp dette bygget vidopne. «Det holdt liksom ikkje å opne ei dør!», vi ler hjertelig av denne kommentaren, for her er det openbart at nokon har hatt det i overkant arti med å begå innbrudd.



Sjølv om vi ikkje har vore i akkurat dette bygget før, kjenner vi allereie til den generelle byggestilen på Lier. Husa er bunnsolide betong/tegl-klossar som godt kan komme til å stå til evig tid. Trappene og trappeavsatsane er derimot i tre.



Vi kjem aller først til eit kjøkken, og så er oppdagelsesferda I gang, vi finne noko som ser litt ut som ei søppelbøtte, men med avløpsrør og vannlås og tilsynelatande påkobla både vatn og strøm. Kva kan det her vere? Forslaga er mange kvar gang vi finne noke!



Den vanvittige uroa eg har følt ved tidligare besøk har tapt seg, det blir ingen djup angst og søvnlause netter i etterkant. Eg nemner det fleire gangar under vegs. Vi ser mykje det same som sist, men litt nye ting. I dette bygget er det mange fine verandaar og vinterhagar. Det einaste som bryte med idyllen er at vindauga kun kan opnast med nøklar. Det ser rart ut, men vi kan jo tenke oss grunnen. I fleire rom er gardinene revne ned og sett fyr på. Dette er nok av nyare dato. Aska ligge enda i foldar som om det fremdeles var et sammanhengande stykke stoff. Urørt. Kanskje var det gjort nylig? Andre plassa kveilar klatreplantar seg inn gjennom vindauga og gjev meg en viss eventyrfølelse. Som om vi befinne oss i tårnet til tornerose, eller i Edens hage.



Fargane er psykedeliske, Lier skuffar aldri på denne fronter. Romma er gule, oransje, knall grøne, brune, rosa, raude! At det går an. Har tidligare høyrt folk le vekk at det selvfølgelig ikkje er GULE veggar på et psykiatrisk sjukehus, for alle med det minste peiling på fargelære veit jo at det ville vere ein særdeles dårlig ide, likevel tok dei altså feil. For dei som ikkje veit det er gul kjendt for å vere oppkvikkande og stressande. Og rosa og brunt? Ikkje for å fornærme nokon her, men kven vil ha rosa og brune veggar??? Det må vere for spesielt interesserte...



I det forrige bygget vi besøkte, besøkte vi ikkje loftet. Dette var min feil, enkelt og greit. Eg blånekta med engang eg såg trappa. Opp dit skulle ikkje eg. Det var ei bratt loftstrapp. Haudet først opp i et stort opent loftsrom såg eg for meg. Bare av den grunn skulle ikkje eg opp dit. Denne gange fortsett dei store, breie hovudtrappene heilt opp på loftet. Det høyres kanskje rart ut, men dette gjore heile utslaget. Pluss at eg antagelig er begynt å bli litt herda. Eg gjekk først opp trappa. Forsiktig, inntil veggen, vekta ytterst på kanten av trinna. Ramona blei hengande etter litt. Dette virka jo logisk nok frå et sikkerhetsperspektiv. Då eg kom opp skjønte eg derimot at det dreia seg om heilt andre ting. Ramona gjekk beine vegen opp uten tegn til forsiktighet, fremdeles godt fornøgd med underholdningsverdien i forsiktigheta mi. Eg ser vistnok vannvittig komisk ut i sånne situasjonar har eg fått høyre. «Bedre forsiktig enn daud» prøva eg meg litt bedrevitande, men bedrevitenskap bite ikkje på ho her.



Loftete viser seg å vere ganske så... koselig..? «Viss eg måtte vere husokkupant en plass, så skulle eg budd her på loftet!» meddelar Ramona, heilt ut av det blå. Eg kan ikkje sei eg er enig i det utsagnet, men sånn midt på lyse dagen så var dette et relativt beroligande rom. I allefall i den grad det kan vere beroligande å befinne seg i fjerde etasje på et forlatt, falleferdig, vistnok hjemsøkt sjukehus. Loftet var ikkje et einaste stort rom sånn som loft av og til er. Huset har mønetak, med tre store utstikkarar der mønet går på tvers av hovudretninga til taket. Rommet strekke seg over lengda av en slik utstikker. Taket er pent tretak, over haudet på oss flyge svalar som vi har skremt opp. Det ovale vindet i enden av rommet er knust. Vi finne ei dør som ledar vidare innover loftet, men den er låst til vår store skuffelse. Vi har fått blod på tann og vil virkelig sjå reste av loftet.



Vi beveger oss ned ei etasje og til midten av bygget. Trappa her er i ei ganske anna forfattning enn den vi nettopp kom ned. Det virkar gjennomgåande at trappene i midten av bygga er betydelig meir medtatt enn dei andre to. Nokon har saga over rekkverket i øvre del av trappa, dette ligger no på skrå over nedre del som ei symbolsk sperring. Eg ville vanligvis ikkje vurdert denne trappa men... «Ka du trur? Trur du det er trygt?» Trygt er det ikkje, det kan eg forsåvidt sjå sjølv. Ramona veit ikkje. Dette er en god inndikator på at vi bør holde oss unda. Eg er lettskremt, Ramona er ikkje. «Det er jo hol i trinna». Vi veit begge at vi ikkje trenge å trakke på den tynne plata som utgjere sjølv trinnet. Men... «Det er jævlig høgt ned» konstatera eg.
Kanskje bare drøye 3 meter ned i neste trapp, men eg ville ikkje satsa store penga på at den holdt. Det er tre særdeles høge etasja under oss. Kanskje 9 meter ca? «Kanskje vi bare skal teste i andre enden først, så kanskje det er opent inn til midten der?» Eg var rimelig letta over denne logikken som plutselig kom til meg, seint men godt. Trappa i andre enden var knirkete, men heil. Resten av loftet er mykje det samme: overaskande beroligande med knuset ovale vindu og svalar under taket.





Når vi kjeme ned igjen i første etasje og skal til å forlate åstaden kjeme eg fram til at vi kanskje skal gjer det vi ikkje skulle gjer. Eg føler meg usedvanlig avslappa og foreslår til Ramona sin store overraskelse og fornøyelse at vi skal ta en kikk på kjellaren... for det kan vel ikkje skade...ikkje sant?
Vi lokalisera nermaste framkommelige trapp.
«Vent, var ikkje det ei dør her i stad?»
Ramona stussa over den opne trappenedgangen. Eg hadde ikkje tenkt over det, men vi hadde jo kikka gjennom et hull i ei dør tidligare på dagen. En ubehagelig tanke, men vi konkludera med at det må ha vore en annan plass i bygninga, for vi er rimelig sikkre på at vi ville vore klar over det viss vi ikkje var aleine. Idet Ramona forsvinne ned i mørket stoppa eg ho likevel. Eg vil fastsette spelereglane.
«Viss eg får noia, så går vi opp igjen ikkje sant?»
«Selvfølgelig.»
Då var det avgjort, eg følge på ned den smale trappa.



Vel nede krevs det likevel ein viss mental anstrengelse. Her er det mørkt, så den rimelig store lommelykta mi har fått fast prioritet i handa mi, alltid på så ein kan sjå kor en går. Vindu i dei første romma vi ser er høgt oppe under taket, smale, og ikkje minst, det er gitter for dei. Den einaste mulige vegen ut som vi veit om er den vegen vi kom inn, og den lisje trappa vi kom ned er vi no i ferd ved å vende ryggen og vandre så langt som overhode mulig vekk frå. Folk har satt fyr på ting i dette huset her før. Men eg tenker rooooolige tankar lenge nok til å få sett andre sida av gangen óg. Her er det vanlige vindauge i vanlig høgde og ikkje bare uten gitter men opne og uten meir enn 20-30 cm bakkeklaring. Lettelse. Då kan ein fokusere på andre ting som... kva i h****** som feila golvet.



Eller, det første spørsmålet som kjeme til meg er, korfor ville nokon knuse veggen inn til heis-rommet?! Eller ein vegg som veldig openbart har ei tom døropning rett ved den knuste biten av murveggen? Men det er ikkje noko «kven» eller «korfor». Det er det samme som uten mål og mening har fått heile den langsgåande koridoren til å sprekke opp langs midten. «Telehiv» konkluderar Ramona.
Her er det moderjord som har protestert på dei begrensningane menneska har skapt akkurat her. Antagelig er grunnarbeidet for dårlig. Eg finner det ganske interessant at dette svære bygget som vi nettopp har vandra gjennom på langs og på tvers og i høgda, skråsikkre på soliditeten, virkelig er så skrøpelig i botnen. Her er det som om moder jord går strategisk til verks for å bli kvitt det, sprenger fundamentet og ventar på at tyngdekrafta skal ta seg av resten. Virkelig interessant, for eg har aldri sett telehiv innandørs. Eg får ein liten fornemmelse av dei 4 tunge etasjane over oss her. Hadde ikkje vore kult å få dei i haudet.



Heldigvis fins det teknikkar for å behalde roen. Før eg går inn i et rom stoppar eg i døra og ta oversikt over det. Før eg går ut igjen og kryssar gangen ser eg til høgre og venstre, som om eg hadde med ein trafikkert veg å gjere, bare at her har forhåpentlegvis ingenting forandra seg. Det du trudde du såg i sidesynet var absolutt ingenting med mindre du såg det heilt tydelig, noko ein stort sett ikkje gjer med sidesynet. Merkelige lydar er kun merkelige viss ein høyre dei fleire gangar, eller begge høyre dei og begge syns dei var merkelige. Viss ein er litt klastrofobisk, overtruisk og mørkeredd sånn som meg som kan du vere sikker på at ein stad som Lier Sjukehus kjem til å krølle det til litt oppe i haudet ditt. Så her er det bare å roe ned og ikkje gå til grunne over litt skyggespel, optiske illusjonar og akkustikk om hjerna ens veve det samen til dei mest intrikate scenario og fantasiar om alt frå spøkelser og demona til lys levande lugubre karakterar med onde hensiktar som bearbeidar allereie tynnsletne nervar. GoPro-kameraet mitt kom dessutan i skade for å fange lugubre karakterar på film. Men det var heldigvis stortsett bare meg.



Ganske på tross av kva vi har blitt einige om på tidligare tidspunkt setter vi kursen mot bygg B. Men vi skal bare ta ein kikk blir vi einige om.
"Eg... skal prøve å vere litt meir forsiktig her" seie Ramone ganske så ukarakteristisk.
Eg trur ikkje heilt mine egne øyre, det har må jo dreie seg om en misforståelse... men eg prøva meg likevel:
"Ka er det eg høyre??? Mena du å antyde at din ellers eineståande karakter ikkje er fullkomment feilfri? Tar du sjølvkritikk?"
"Neida, selvfølgelig ikkje! Det eg seier er bare at spesielle situasjonar krever spesialtilpassing."

Her har det tidligare vore grundig lukka og låst, men i løpet av sommaren har det dukka opp ei opning. Gjerdet står også her ope. Ikkje det at det her heller hadde vore noko stress å løfte laus anleggsgjerdet, men det har ei viss symboleffekt likevel. Innafor, midt på det grønne palasset som har rykte på seg for å vere det mest forfallne, er det ei opa dør. Som om trykket hadde arbeida seg opp der inne til det svakaste leddet gav etter. Bare ei dør. Lurer på kva det skuldast. Innafor er det litt som ellers og litt nytt. Motorsagmasakeren ala Lier er like tilstedeværande her som ellers. Reine kutt gjennom trappegelender, det er ikkje tvil. Men samtidig har det sitt eige distinkte preg dette huset, og det er så langt frå den nesten koselig følelsen på loftet i nabobygget at det er til å få frysningar av. Ein av dei første romma vi kjem til er også her et kjøken. I det eg stikke haudet rundt hjørne til dette rommet får eg ein merkelig følelse som det ikkje lykkast meg heilt å verken huske skikkelig eller forstå. Det føles litt som om eg hadde trakka rett inn i helvete, men et augeblikk seinare såg eg at det var ikkje så forferdelig likevel... bare enda et forfallent rom, blant mange andre vi hadde sett både i dag, og andre dagar, både her og andre stadar. På filmen frå det vesle GoPro-kamerat som eg hadde i handa i dette øyeblikket kan en sjå at eg bråstoppa og nesten vil rygge litt unna, men så finne eg igjen fornufta mi langt bak i bevistheta mi ein plass. Det vesle kjøkkenet er ramponer av både tida og menneska, det er mørkt og dei høge vindauga er spikra igjen til over hauda våre.

Når vi kjem ut frå den tverrliggande delen av huset og over i hovuddelen, er vi inne i ein av desse karakteristiske lange korridorane. Vi går mot høgre først. Det som fort slår meg er at så godt som samtlege dører inn til pasientromma har små vindauga, eller kikkehull.
«Eg trur vi har funne høgsikkerhetsavdelinga eg!»
Eg blir litt begeistra, og får litt noia. Eit par dører lenger inn kjem vi til ei som er dobbel... og som ser ut til å ha ei kjerne av metall mellom den vanlige finéren.
«Sjekk den her! Det her er ikkje noko tulledør!»
Dette rommet har eg ikkje tenkt meg inn på merka eg. Det er spesielt berekna på å holde nokon trygt innestengt... ellers takk.



Ellers benytta eg meg meir og meir av muligheten til å komme meg ut av koridoren og inn i romma rundt. Jo lenger inn vi kjeme jo meir stressa blir eg. Eg har akkurat komt på nokon av mine egne bilde av utsida av akkurat dette bygget, og blandt anna det store vinduet i enden av akkurat denne koridoren, det som vi sakte men sikkert bevega oss mot akkurat da. Det var noke litt spesielt med dei bilda, men det skulle eg absolutt ikkje tenke på akkurat da bestemte eg.
Flashback til hybelen min i Dal, der eg satt å redigerte bilda:

           «Oj! Sjå på det! Det ser jo ut som mange ansikt i vinduet! Haha. Er sikkert bare på grunn av
            den dårlige kvaliteten og tåka... er sikkert sånn på alle bilde» *nervøs latter*

          «Hmmm, er vist ikkje sånn på dei andre bilda likevel... Fuck. Det var jo.... beroligande.»

Ein prøva jo alltid å holde ei viss oversikt i slike situasjonar, i allefall har eg gjort det til en vane å skanne omgivelsane mine med jamne mellomrom på slike stadar. Ta overblikk over en korridor før ein snur ryggen til den, og overblikk over et rom før ein går inn i det. Viss folka med motorsaga kjeme igjen for eksempel, vil eg vite om det før heller enn seinare. Eg stressa gjennom første etasje og så vil eg ut.
«Klokka er mykje» unnskylda eg det med. Eg trur ikkje eg lurte nokon med det utsagnet. Bygg B var dystert, og ein god del meir påfallande forfallent enn dei andre bygga. Flassa maling var det i dei andre og, men bygg B tar det liksom til nye høgder uten at eg heilt hadde trudd det var mulig. Men meir om det seinare. Vi havna nemlig her ein gang til, sjølv om følelsen av dette huset var så påfallande bedriten at det står i sterk kontrast til det nærmast behaglige E-bygget. Men slike følelsar er uhåndgripelige og falma fort til ingenting i hukommelsen.


tirsdag 6. august 2013

Draw

I've been trying to get into drawing again lately. The other day I started to draw an eye (the one on your right), but then the other suddenly found it's inspiration in Mrs Figg (played by Kathryn Hunter), whom I just saw on my computer screen. I was watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix at that point. My attempt at drawing a nose for this mismatched face turned out so bad that I had to put it out of it's misery all together. Then I ended up writing a quote across it that I suddenly remembered from photography class.



Then the next day, I and a friend of mine watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 and I drew another one of the characters. This time it was one of the Weasley-twins, or more precisely James Phelps, or so who ever posted the picture I used claims. I personally thinks it looks a bit more like Oliver Phelps, but I can't really say for sure. Yet again the eyes turned out alright, but the rest is really a mess. I started to outline the head and some hair but then gave it up, because I'd done what I always do, which is to pull the eyes, nose and mouth to close together and therefor ruined the proportions. Oh well, can't be too bad, because earlier today me and my parents went out to eat and a guy who worked there randomly came up to us and praised my drawing skills because he saw me work on this drawing :D





Aside from that, I drew this questionable character some time ago, for whom I can site no other sources then the dark corners of my mind.



In other words: It's going good!

torsdag 11. juli 2013

Just saying

"In God we trust, all others we monitor."

Alene mot verdens storebror på Aftenposten.no

Stå opp for Snowden! på Amnesty.no


lørdag 6. juli 2013

Where once was home

We've come through an ocean of green and only just emerged from a tangle of vegetation that was way over our heads. Ramona has already made it trough the backdoor and now I'm standing just outside the front door, which is not really there anymore. I stand there for a moment, assessing my target, but then I tentatively try the floor inside with one foot. This causes the equivalent of a small earthquake. A table by the wall quivers, a quiet warning. Not wanting to see what the rest of my force can do in this particular spot, I ease myself onto a spot further away. Coming away from the door, the floor is better.

I immediately get the feeling that this place is inhabited, but this is just the last desperate attempts of my so called «better judgment» to turn me around. Clearly, no one lives here. This home is abandoned. The newspaper on the living room table was printed some time in the sixties. The door to the room holds a clear indication of forced entry. This can be gathered from the very local, but non the less profound destruction where the lock used to be. Do you force or do you find your way? We've waited for time and nature to open the barriers of humanity, and now we are here to visit the left overs and investigate. Some visit the neatly polished gravestones of people, we visit fading parts of civilization. Visit them on their deathbeds so to speak. I personally like to investigate their illnesses, see where the floor fails first and the likes. It is also interesting to see what is left behind when people withdraw. And what is done by those who come after, like us. We play nice, but not all do.

Right next to the newspaper there is a book. It's open, waiting to be read, but neglected indefinitely. The windows all around are shattered and gone. Still, the book has seen no drift it appears. No waterdamages has been eating away at it. No nothing. It shows the beging of a chapter: “Lazarus, come forth”. Lazarus is a biblical character it turnes out. Raised from the dead by Jesus. At this point in time, I'd rather the dead did not come forth.

A few broken tones break the tense silence and sets the mood . Ramona is trying her hand at the piano in the room. It's seems only half awake, only half remembering it's own workings, or it wants a say in the melody played. Because of all the ebonies and ivories, only a selection seems to have sounds that go with them. Some sound when prompted, others stay dead silent. In the middle of the floor the is a suitecase, open and ready to be filled with all the surrounding clutter. The floorboard are a little soft, but not too soft.

Upstairs is mostly empty. Not much furniture, but the floor is carpeted by newspapers and the likes.





The Sound of Music

Me and you

Abandoned

Lazarus, come forth

mandag 10. juni 2013

Piece of cake

I used to be dead scared of driving to the point of being absolutely positive that I would never ever learn it. Now a day I drive at least 5 hours a week just to go to school, then there's the rather frequent 16 hours back and forth to go home every other weekend and the somewhat.... alternative sightseeing trips on the remaining weekends. And, needless to say, I've tackled the shift stick even, cause that's how we do around here. But now, I can't help but wonder if I was right to be scared? Is it just me that's noticing how stupid we all get in traffic?

I'm just driving and driving, minding my own business, when suddenly I look in the mirror, and HOLY COW, where did I get that trailer?! No wait! That thing is surely way out of the weight class of my poor little Ford. On closer inspection it looks more like a lorry, only it looks to have stuck to my bumper. Wonder what would happen if I hit the breaks? But never mind that. I'm sure the driver must be fast asleep, as the left lane is wide open, just waiting to be used. Funny.

Also, when people are trying to get onto the highway and you are suppose to be nice and not put their life in danger and all sorts of warm and fuzzy things. Well, some people find this a splendid time to rush ahead of you. I mean, you've already got approximately 1567 cars between you and your home, you wouldn’t want to make that 1568 just to spare someones life... I totally get it! I mean, why enter in front of that nice, but somewhat worn out Ford Focus that's made room for you, when you could put the pedal to the metal and squeeze in between the car ahead of it and the lorry that are way to close for comfort? I mean, he or she could totally save at least like a split second!

A late, warm evening in august, I was reminded of what a difficult thing it is to drive. I had driven for a solid 7 hours that day and by now, the traffic had almost stilled completely. I had left the shift stick in neutral, just rolling downhill, which had left me with only one pedal to use, the breaks. Every time I taped it, my right leg protested painfully. This is when the most... shall we say “educational” idea struck me: why not use my left foot? It's just hanging around idly anyway. I feel very pleased with this idea and immediately switch feet. It's all good, until I actually have to do something. I tap the break again, but this time the fault is somewhere else. I tap it too hard. Turns out my left foot is not as fine tuned, or rather it is tuned for something else entirely: the clutch. This is quite unsettling and when unsettled in traffic, I usually automatically floor the clutch just in case. So I floor the clutch, except it isn’t not the clutch, it's the break. I swear to God, the car behind me almost ran me over even at such a low speed. So, note to self: it is of the essence to keep the right foot on the right pedal. Driving is very complicated, it's just that we've all forgotten. We just think that we can do it, we don’t realize that the right foot cant do what the left foot is doing, so how would we know if we suddenly didn’t know anymore?


One afternoon I'm driving home from school. I'm on the highway, and suddenly I plunge into a thought-experiment. What would happen if I fell asleep right now? As I'm doing 110 km/h in 5th gear at probably around 2500 RPM, I've got my right foot on the gas pedal. I carefully relax the muscles. As this car has a blessedly mellow diesel engine and requires a little intent to unsettle it's pace once it's taken to it, the pedal sinks just barely and it continues steadily at the same worrisome speed of 110 km/h. But then I have another idea. I pull my heal back just a bit from the pedal, and relax my foot again. This time it starts to accelerate. I quickly slow back down, eyes wide with horror. I'm wide awake at this point, despite that my brain is positively silver from all the metal fumes I've inhaled at school that same day, but all around me, people are going home from work, all tired and worn out, all at 110 km/h with their foot on the gas... This is exactly the sort of situation where you will want to remain blissfully ignorant. 

søndag 26. mai 2013

Lyster Sanatorium... again and again and again.




Then we were there again, the building still standing and looking awesome. To think they want to tear this thing down. That's why we're here, because it might be the last time we ever get to see it. I don’t know why this makes me sad, but it does. It's still just as fascinating as the first time I saw it, which was less then a year ago. A year before that again, the fascination was pretty much instant as it emerged from a small photograph of a big white building on the mountainside snapped at twilight a warm summer evening from across the fjord... my 250 mm lens was just short of giving me a good look at it. I would have never imagined I would set foot in this place and live (through the panic) to tell the tale. Not unless there was a gun to my head... and I would still have died from the panic I imagined. Which goes to show that a lot more is possible then originally expected. And even such low level impossibilities feels mighty good to conquer.


This time I have thought to come better equipped, with proper flashlights, a flash and a tripod. Tripod in hand, I work a lot slower then usual as it's not soothing my usual, restless self. My frustration was fairly faint though. My experience from my trips to Lier (abandoned mental institution) is that such hangups as a tripod needing to be adjusted would surely murder me slowly. Being forced to remain still made the nervousness ease up on me, as though the devil was on my trail back there. In this place, my behavior alters as well, but in quite a different way. I become infinitely chatty, thinking and speaking almost simultaneously, leaving no time what so ever for any elaborate consideration on the matter of whether this would be even remotely interesting to anyone, ever. I can be quite annoying.



In the deep darkness of the basement, the sweep of a tiny flashlight reveals a small object on the floor.
“Is that on of them sticks they used to lobotomize people with?” Ramona wonders. I believe I've told her about such things previously.
Not even a chill spreads at the mentioning of such macabre tools. For various reasons, I'm fairly sure she is wrong, but I hunch down to have a closer look. It's just a nut cracker, or rather half a nut cracker. When I give my interpretation of another object a moment later, it was Ramona's turn to be all rational.
“It's just a broken sifter” she clarifies, shooting down my more imaginative ideas, revolving around the fact that it is remarkable head-shaped. There are plenty fuel for the imaginative in this place. I used to see mosters everywhere, but now I feel only vaguely unsure when I'm walking around alone, wondering where Ramona has disappered off to.



As we slowly finish up with the basement, we run into the guided tour and get a tip that we might want to head up to the library while the sun is still in the right spot. Apparently there is a hole in the ceiling and the light is good just now. We head on up 4 flights of stairs, to the topmost floor (not counting the attic). I am very happy as I had thought this train had gone. We barely entered this floor during my first visit as the strange arching corridor was creeping me out (hard to imagine now), there was the added risk of going tumbling trough the floor the further up we went and last but not least: Janne had had enough at that point. She simply did not take as much interest in this stuff as I do. Last time, anything above the first floor was off limits. So some parts of this building remained uncharted, and now I would finally get to see them. The basement and first floor had been thoroughly explored, but some of the second, most of the third and almost all of the forth was still fresh to us.

As we step off of the solid and safe feeling stairs, I bring on my stealthy, soft gait, very aware that there is a long, crushing drop lurking beneath my feet. Under every slightly upward turned window in this hallway there is vivid decomposing going on. In one particular bad spot, I step in a doorway, grab onto it while reaching as far away from the rotten spot with one foot as I can, brushing my front against the wall. Ramona thinks I'm being super silly, so I cant help but rub it in when we later see this spot from below. It's hard to miss as some of the third floor ceiling has made it onto the floor and is now a sizable pile that I step over tentatively, always a bit unsettled when I cant see the floor under my feet. From beneath, this spot looks very bleak, and I'm happy I did my best not to step on it.



Sensitive me picks up even the slightest change in solidity underfoot, and is now moving increasingly slowly and silently, favoring the doorways and the sides of the rooms, while Ramona walks straight across the floor as though nothing is off, like this is just a stroll in the park. This is one of many times I've wondered what on earth is going on in her head. “Better safe then sorry” I think to myself. It's not as though I'm missing anything by choosing a slightly different route through the rooms. Come to think of it, to be safe would probably mean to be somewhere else entirely. I am well aware that many people would consider this utter stupidity, and not even faintly worthwhile. If they were to think nice and rationally though, they too would know that life is dangerous, and my 40 000+ km on the road in the last year is surely a much bigger threat to my safety. My insurance company realize this at least, that's why they keep demanding more and more money for my car insurance.

We find the library pretty easily and it is indeed splendid. Though fairly small, it stretches the full height of two floors with a gallery up top. Further up there is a rectangular hole in the ceiling (maybe 1,5x3 meters?) through which we can see the attic windows and the sunlight. Strangely unfazed by this (this would be the building layout of my nightmares, as it is very difficult to survey) I exclaim:
“I want a library just like this one!”



Before I even manage to cross the room and set up the tripod, Ramona is way ahead of me, wanting to show me the distinctions of oak, as she has tried to explain this before. As I realize the amount of plain, proper wood (oak even) in this room we are both a bit astonished. Ramona is the expert (at least I'm trying to stick her with the task as my expert consultant), but even I can tell that this must have cost a small fortune.
“You could put anything in here! Anything! A full collection of encyclopedia or what ever, this is so strong, it could hold just about anything!” Ramona's joy at seeing something so properly and nicely made is obvious.
“I don’t really want to leave. Maybe we should just stay here for ever and ever!” I giggle.

On the forth floor we run into the guided tour yet again the very helpful make shift guide gives us another tip: the most haunted spot is on the third floor around where there is a big hole in the floor he assures us. And we head down.

We work our way through the third floor as well and eventually arrive at the spot where a long strip of duck tape and a cheerful note used to mark the beginning of the off limit section of the floor. It now hangs limply down along the wall, so I venture a few steps further, rounding the corner to see that a big portion of floor has come undone. Later on, on the second floor, we realize that the hole is 2 floors deep, as the destruction has continued on through the second floor while it was at it, and ended in a big pile on the first floor. The latter remained solid. This stuff can not have been here the first time I realize, as it dawns on me exactly where we are. Surly I would have notice a big hole over head while walking on thin air down the second floor hallway. Thinking back, I remember being pointed to a section of the floor to feel it with my foot. The floorboards were all soft. Overhead, a dark area of the ceiling was already giving away the condition the upstairs floor. The blackening 110 years old floorboards looked pliable enough to give way to anyone insisting enough. That section of the third floor was already off limits due to safety. It is very peculiar to observe such changes. It doesn’t really unsettle or frighten me, as we are not particularly dim and have been thoroughly informed of the risks at hand and what to look out for, but it's sad. 110 is no age for such a structure. The grand dame could easily have been thriving still, but unaccustomed to the presence of humans in the last 20 years, this building has become a place for something else entirely. The lady in white flies again, but on weathered wings, as though in remembrance of a past life. Though in a once proud creation of mankind, we are strangely out of our element. As this all was neglected, nature itself has been pulling the strings.





“I might cry if this place is demolished” I say, not for the first time that day and only half joking.
But there is a lot of work to be done. Windows all around are leaking furiously and the woodwork is slowly coming undone. It's very cool that someone would dare to take on such a daunting task.

Checking out the rest of this side of the second and third floor, I stumble upon a familiar sight. With my recollection mostly revolving around stills from previous trips, this whole section of the house is familiar, but this room captures me instantly. I remember the pix I took here and decide that they didn’t do it justice. The pix weren’t bad, but this room is soooo nice. I lean on the doorway, feeling so very strangely at home. This room isn’t particular in any sort of obvious way, but I feel that this room is a very good place to be. Might be the calm blue paint and the big windows with the sunny, breathtaking landscape outside that is eating at my brain, but this is very nice. I snap a few more pix, but I instinctively know that this isn’t the sort of stuff that attaches to pixels. Oh well, wouldn’t stop me trying.



We find a few more interesting pieces of furniture on one of the upper levels and I carefully place the tripod, instruct Ramona on which button to push, and then head on up in front of the camera, not for the first time that day. I feel so embarrassed, but I feel very strongly that some of my shots need people and I have, as of yet, not been able to convince any of my friends to take up a career in modeling. Also, I hate asking people for help. I will just have to do. Ramona is having a blast as I am chit chatting, trying to excuse my behavior.
“I can see you like taking pictures of yourself” she says laughing.
I'm wondering if she really knows this little about me, or if she is merely pretending, so she can make me even more ill at ease (if even possible). Most of the pictures are useless though, as my discomfort is very visibly present in my posture. This, needless to say, works very badly when you are supposedly a fearsome, supernatural being.



I did take one self portrait I was happy with though. It was me sitting on the stairs in the basement, looking sort of happy. It was hard-won though as I nearly smashed in the back of my head a few seconds earlier, slipping on the damp stairs. It was also by the way much too damp to actually sit on, so I had to pretend to sit on it instead. My head was even lost in a sort of blue haze that looks way funny. I wasn’t aware of any fog on the lens at that point, and there seems to be non on the pix before nor after. But this place was much to damp to trust anything coming from a camera, especially anything back-lit by a window.



We check back with the guy who is in charge before leaving. As we talk for a while about photography, exploring and so on, me and Ramona (mostly me I suppose) becomes thoroughly convinced that we should come back in a few weeks. So one more trip it is I suppose. I did say that this would be the very last trip, but than again I've said that every time we've been here. We've spent a good four hours, and then even rushing a bit at the end. We head on over to the car and drive home in silence mostly. It always gets like this as I'm the one that talks usually, but after visiting such places I have too much to think about to even realize I'm being dead quiet. Luckily, Ramona is like that always so she hardly notices. This time I stay thoughtfully quite for days though, only speaking when prompted.








søndag 19. mai 2013

Luster and Lier

Made my forth visit to Lyster Sanatorium yesterday, so there is probably going to be even more on that soon. Till then, I've finally managed to upload the movie I was working on at Lier last time. It's just a sort of presentation for my contribution to the IKEA-hacking project me and my fellow product design students did at Oslo and Akershus University College of Applied Sciences. We were all given a set of Lupin blinds from IKEA and could make what ever we wanted with them. I made a bridge, and later decided to make a monster and set the movie to Lier to define a purpose for it. The movie is sort of non-sensical and a bit rushed since it could not be longer then 1 minute, and I was sort of running out of time and motivation at the end there :P

 

The music is the theme from Shutter Island and "Cure for the itch" by Linkin Park.

lørdag 11. mai 2013

How not to go exploring

For all of last week I had been thinking I needed to talk to Ramona about hanging out on Saturday. Sadly, in between shaping steel, relearning to weld and tackling the complexities of SolidWorks, I was way too tired to remember to do this. So it was not until Friday that I did, and not until about 9 PM that it was established that be would go to Sweden the next morning. Being a semi-organized duo of urbexers, we had had this spot in mind for a while and I had already pinpointed it on Google Maps long ago, luckily.
Almost at once it started getting a little interesting though. Have you ever tried reading Google's directions for a route you already know? Notice how they somehow manage to confuse you anyway? 

We made it to Sweden okey, then we drove around aimlessly for a while (according to the GPS, the place we were heading simply does not exist) and when we finally got too worried that we would get lost in the cobweb of roads out in the woods, we headed back to town and went candy shopping. Eventually, I got in touch with my dad over the phone and by the combined forces of Google Maps and the NAF-bible (the Norwegian Automobile Association’s book of road maps) we got back on track.

(a few weeks earlier)
Dad : *wathching TV, looks at me, looks back at the TV, and back at me again* “Is that the NAF-book you're reading?!”
Me: “Yeah, I'm looking for an abandoned hotel I saw...”
Dad: “Oh... “

Finally back on track, Ramona is clearly getting used to the NAF-book and is buzy keeping track of where we are on the map, while I have the unsettlig feeling that while we drive slowly in my little Ford Focus (no off-road truck to say the least) the locals drive just like my local locals (myself included) on the dodgy roads at home: in a way that suggests you know every corner, which is supernaturally fast. 

“So now you have lost your way and cant find the pile of trash you were looking for?”.

My dad wasn’t too far off with this sarcastic attempt at guessing what I wanted when I called.
So what is it we have come for exactly? Cars, a whole bunch of cars rotting away slowly. This has been called a car cemetery by many and is supposedly the biggest collection of decaying cars in all of northern Europe. Different sources give different numbers, but 500+ is not a bold guess to the number of cars, maybe ever as much as a thousand. All from the forties, fifties and sixties, when this was a flourishing business. Now photographers and nostalgic car enthusiasts thrive instead. Before we exit the car, I look at my watch and declare that we have half an hour, tops. This is not enough, by any means, but we need to be back at Eidsvoll by 8.09 pm. “Why haven’t you gotten your lens out yet?” Ramona wants to know.

We track around the woods and see a fraction of it. I take about 150 pix. Even such noobs as us can see all sorts of familiar shapes around us. The VW T1 (van), the old school VW Beetle, a Mini Cooper (a car involved in almost all my dad's tales of his youth) and one that looks like the car Mr Bean drives. The cars are piled up, some missing a lot of major parts, some smashed quite a bit, and they have stuff growing on, in, around and through them. Beetles are smiling wide from bushes, from atop other cars and from between the trees, because it's the only expression they have. We'll be back for sure!

The next morning I woke up anxious and depressed, only halfway recovered from a sugar induced coma-like sleep. This clearly could only be mended by some more candy.








tirsdag 16. april 2013

Explore

I have been thinking hard all day, I even dreamt about it last night! I will not tell you exactly what it was, because that would make it worse, but I will shed some light on the matter so you can see what I'm on about.

One day I landed myself in a bit of a tangle with my new found mischievous hobby. I spotted a building a while ago that was clearly out of business, because, well, all the windows were broken. Pretty much every single one. In between planning for bigger missions, we decided to have a look at it one day. The first door we tried had clearly been forcefully opened at some point, but now it was shut properly. The second one was open. Which I found slightly odd, but didn’t really take the time to reflect on it before slipping inside. Almost instantly, when inside, be realized we might have made our first blooper. Abandoned places hold all sorts of strange things, and some are like time capsules, but this didn’t seem right for some reason. First of all, there were forklifts. We had seen that before, but those had come trough hell (or rather a massive fire) while these looked fully operational. Also, the floor looked to have been swept recently. Which is something people don’t just happen to do to abandoned buildings. People might board up windows and door out of the goodness of their hearts, but they don’t sweep. There is just no meaning to it.

As you might have already gathered, this place was slightly less abandoned then we would have liked. It was certainly out of business, but it seemed someone was still using this place for storage if nothing else. At this point in the story (I'm sad to say you are not the first to hear it) my mother was slightly outraged over the phone: “Someone could have walked in on you! They could have been angry! It could have been dangerous!”. And yeah, someone could have very well arrived just then and it would have been very bad.

For fear of saying to much, I will not elaborate any further or go into details of the appearance, type or whereabouts of this building, so this is where I switch back to my pondering. As I may or may not have described at great lengths before (not sure actually), we do not steal, break stuff, break and enter, vandalize or any of that stuff. Outside of the constant presence of expensive (and quite heavy) photo gear, our objective is mostly to see and to make more or less qualified guesses as to why things are the way they are. We are good guys we feel, though you might not be able to tell if you ran into us in a dodgy place. I don’t care so much for labels, but I want to be good and not bad, not rude. But I feel that this whole situation is rude. To be in someone's space unbidden. It is at best, very rude. This is indisputable to me. However accidental, the result is still the same to the subject of out involuntary rudeness. Believe me, I would love to write this off as someone else's fault or problem, but there is no two ways about this. So what is there to wonder about? Well... I was wondering what to do with the pix. We were in agreement at once that we should not give out this location to anyone, not even almost, or accidentally, or partially, or by way of cryptic clues, as is the way of urban explorers. The pix would be published (the least incriminating ones, mind you) and no one would be any the wiser as to were they came from. After all, what were the odds that the wrong people would see them???

The I went on to the mental experiment of what would happen IF the wrong people did see them. “I would feel so bad” I though, and felt some of the imagined shame wash over me. Then I swiftly carried on deciding which pix would be published...

This is when the bullshit detector went off in my head, clearly, or it wouldn’t be a very good one. The consept that all reasoning seemed to travel in big circles around was this: If I know I'm going to feel bad about this later, then why on earth am I doing it? I would apologize with feeling I imagined, but all the while my subconscious was miles ahead of me, repeating a specific line from a song, for a suitable soundtrack (this is actually, I regret to inform you, no joke! I actually ended up having to download it). A fitting answer to my future plea for forgiveness: “Don't tell me you're sorry cause you're not. I know you're only sorry you got caught” (“Take a bow” by Rihanna). There is no real damage done, and this is an honest mistake so long as no one knows. But I wouldn’t be able to convince anyone (especially not myself) that I accidentally uploaded the pictures to the web. After all, I have to remember what so few people seem to realize; that the web is not like my diary at all. People can see and read, and respond and spread this stuff! So, what is not yours to share, do not put it on the web! Tell your trusted friends and your mum and all that, but do not put something on the web if you cant honestly defend it without blushing. And try not to step on peoples toes to much when they have done absolutely no harm to you. And preferably, don’t do stuff at all if you cant justify it.

In other news, this is our second explore in a row that has ended with someone asking us for directions.
“Why does this keep happening?” I wondered aloud.
“It's because we look so at home everywhere” Ramona concludes.

Later on we go to a store, and I smile at people. I only recently figured it was okay to spontaneously smile at strangers and now I do it all the time. Who know it was this easy to be just slightly more outgoing?! My lack of understanding for what falls withing the boundaries of normal conversations, still seems to confuse people, but when you smile a lot, random people might say hi or even start talking to you, which is nice :)

søndag 24. mars 2013

The story of Lier, in engligh finally


I'm talking with Ramona about rugs. The sort of rugs that cover the entire floor and are glued to it. We both feel that these are the work of the devil and should be outlawed. It suddenly occurs to me that we are on the third floor of what is said to be one of Norway's most hunted buildings and we are talking about rugs... right. This is our third time in the abandoned buildings of Lier Psychiatric Hospital.



Earlier that day we were driving and driving some more. Our normal parking spot (it seems somewhat disturbing that this is an appropriate way to phrase it) was covered in snow so we had to continue along. It had taken us two hours longer then last time when we finally rounded a corner and a monstrous building straight out of the movies appeared when I had just been hoping for a sign.

Well, quite so monstrous I suppose it wasn't, it was just the strike of unexpected recognition that took me by surprise. Still, patients arrive here and if I suffered from, say severe anxiety, I feel the look of this place would not be helping in the least. I'll have to say it does look severely haunted. As though for effect, there is even steam coming out from somewhere just in front of the first decaying building you see. In my head, this moment belonged on the silver screen. Ramona on the other hand, felt nothing, being Ramona and all. Then we drove around some more looking for somewhere inconspicuous to park, and ended up looking pretty conspicuous in the process. It turned out our original route was way inconspicuous indeed, but only because it was mostly the wrong way to get there. That's Google Maps for you. Now we were all up in their faces which saved us some walking but eliminated the cleverness of it all. Eventually we made it in unseen though. This was important, not just because we would rather not get caught, but also because parts of the hospital is still in use and we had heard that this coming and going of thrill seekers, vandals, graffiti artists, photographers and all sorts of freaks like ourselves around the clock is not ideal for the treatment of minds in the next building over. Which I can quite frankly understand, as the horror look this hospital is sporting is probably weighting them down enough as it is.



The night before had left an additional 10 cm of fresh snow on top of any recent footprints, so ours were conspicuous to say the least, if not straight up incriminating, leading trough the woods, right through the fence right next to the sign that said “Keep out! Dangerous area.” and in through the open door. We looked around the first floor a little bit to observe the changes from last time. A few things had moved and new things had appeared. Signs of life like paper cups and a apple frozen solid on the windowsill, and then stranger things like a towel that was covering something and a window frame up against the wall, like someone was redecorating, or securing the place, who knows. There are rumors going around the underground community of urban explorers that this place has been stripped, and that seemed to be holding up. Aside from these few objects that were obviously from the outside, we saw only one chair (truthfully I only ever saw it in my own pix, not on the sight :P) and a rather ordain looking machine of sorts.



I had this funny feeling like something heavy came over me. I had read about people having similar experiences in this place before, so I attributed it to my imagination. My overly imaginative brain supplied the image of a heavy rug falling on me and weighting me down in an attempt to define this feeling. Later I came to believe it was due to the mold, which I absolutely cannot handle.



Further down the hall we saw the first mold too. I had a mask to protect me from this shit, but it was nicely stuffed away back home. Ingenious indeed. Later on I saw a shadow move and studied it for a moment until I became disturbed enough by it that I stepped into the next room and declared that I was seeing things. I was absolutely seeing things, and it must be all down to the mold, because I had no intention of thinking up any other explanation at that point. It would simply not serve any purpose. Come to think of it, I stepped into the next room to talk to Ramona, who I had naturally thought to be the owner of that shadow, which doesn’t make any sense at all. But this is how I went along. When I though I saw something disappear behind a door, I was also very much not having a supernatural experience I resolutely decided and tuned away. This is an acquired skill that comes in super handy. I can always speculate later.



The same skill compelled me to not have a closer look when, on the second floor, I took a picture that at first glimpse just wasn’t right. I thought of the rotten, wooden stairs we had just ascended, the weak point to a building that would otherwise hold up for a long time, it was absolutely a safer bet to hang around a ghost for a while, then to have a go at running back down, out of my mind with panic, I'd just rather not know about it, that's all. When I think about it real good, the panic is actually the worst possible outcome I can imagine here. I was saying to my good friend Janne the other day that “det er beire å vete enn å springe rundt som ei haudalaus høne” (it is better to know then to run around like a headless chicken) but this place requires some special tactics, which is non of the above. Not to know because this is a dangerous place to run around, like a headless chicken or otherwise. Once you're at the whims of a rotten staircase, you've best stay calm. I mean, I wouldn’t be so bold as to say 'bring it on', but what can a supposed ghost really do to me anyway? I have no concept of the power of the supernatural (if such things are even real) and don't know if it can do anything to me, but there are definitely several things a failing staircase and a multiple story drop can do to a person, non of which are pleasant. I try not to think this too loudly though, as not to challenge anyone in mental hearing shot. I find myself involuntarily weighing my words as one might do when in the presence of strangers, avoiding talk of “crazies” and “lunatics” and talk more in terms of “patients” and “inhabitants”. This is only polite after all, and I do feel genuinely sympathetic towards those who belonged in the long lost past of these rooms. I have read quite a bit on the history of this place, and it is a dark one. Also, I decide not to look at my pix at all till later, but I did non the less. The light is dim and difficult and I don’t want to use the flash more then needed (for fear of being caught) so I've locked the exposure time and constantly need to review if they need extra attention. Also my hands were trembling bad. From the cold or adrenalin or the combo, I do not know. This place is creepy as shit.



First I try to stop our advance up from the second floor, thinking I might gain some leverage from the fact that I'm the one with a car and a driver's license, but I lose this one, as I'm not good at threatening people and Ramona wouldn’t think twice about tracking this entire building complex, at night, by her lonesome if she could only find the motivation to do so. Also, I'm just not going to stand around alone, or walk back down alone, or really, let her go alone where I think it's not good to go. So I tag along, while the wood work bend under my feet and I cringe as the setting gets darker and more rotten. I place my feet carefully as we climb the last staircase, but halfway up I see a picture in the making in stop to shoot, forgetting yet again the worries at hand.



We don’t go everywhere though. I have established in advance that we will not go into the basement under any circumstances... just cause. I further my list as we go along. I quickly change my approach though. As we find the attic and later a room that I harbored particularly bad feelings for, I plead and beg. It was apparently undignified enough that Ramona decided not to press me on it. I probably wouldn’t have freaked, but I was getting dangerously close. Just the look of the attic stairs gives me the creeps and I can barely stand just walking past the door, which is slightly ajar, revealing a steep, narrow staircase. I don’t know why this is, but some things I feel acutely bad about, and these stairs and that one specific room are two such places. The stair in this case looks strangely distorted. Like they had a spare room big enough for a latter but insisted on building a proper set of stairs in there. Real proper stairs compressed and forcefully fitted. The room in question sits in a section of the building half a level lower then the rest of it, and it's full of wooden closets. From the top of the short stairs, I watch it worryingly while I hastily snap a few shots of it, only reluctantly employing the flash. I feel as though I might disturb something and that I should get a move on, so I'm getting very frustrated and stressed up there with nothing suitable to bounce the flash off. Just cause I feel it is important to do things properly in such situations to avoid freaking out, I linger till I get something vaguely resembling a sensible shot of it from above. I guess standing still just generally upsets me though. As long as I'm moving along, it's all OK, but whenever we linger for a while, whether it is to work out a difficult shot or to work on my stop-motion-animation (an endlessly time consuming pursuit, let me tell you) I get nervous, maybe because I have to focus on something besides my surroundings, and the sound of our footsteps cease, and the conversation dies. And it all so unnerving.



The lack of a tripod makes everything more difficult too. I'd left it in the car for our mission to be less obvious to onlookers. There is just no way people would miss the fact that I had a big, silver tripod attached to my little black backpack, and with only one credible reason known to us to be wondering around this particular neighborhood with suck gear, well, it wasn’t exactly rocket science to connect the dots. While this had seemed completely sane on the outside, I now could hardly believe my own stupidity. We had taken care not to be seen from the hospital, and though anybody else might suspect what we were up to, the chance of them actually taking action against us is extremely slim. So mostly, this meant there would be additional quality time spent with a building suitable for nightmares and populated with little black things only visible to cameras (more on this later). Also, it is astonishing what a metal object of this size and shape in hand will do for your nerves. Even a pacifist like me might feel thankful for a make shift weapon, if only to discourage potential aggressors.



I'm somewhat relieved as I'm setting up one last stop-motion shoot with my little wooden toy just inside the front door, much to Ramona's dismay as she finds this pursuit incredibly frustrating and, I suspect, a bit dim. Also, this means she has to handle my stuff, either the camera or the homemade monster, which she seems incredibly reluctant to do. But I'm relaxed jet again and feel like I have all the time in the world. My jeans still has a few stains from whatever covered the stairs I was hunched down on and the plastic bag I sat my camera on collected a few flakes of paint from this creepy sight. I didn’t get much time though. A moment later we have slipped into the next room in a hurry and are straining our eyes and ears. At first, Ramona though I was imagining things again, but then she heard it too, and now we have both seen it: hikers out in the woods. The excess adrenalin as I'm calming down is making me all giddy and even Ramona is giggling now. Though only guilty of curiosity, we feel like a pair of criminals and it is surreal. Awesomely surreal. I cant help but hope that these people are not the likes of us though. I would feel really bad if they walked in here and spotted us first thing, that would have been an unpleasant surprise I think.



A few minutes later we are hurrying across the yard in the window of time that could be just a few seconds or hours and hours. Ramona is cursing me for securing the fence when we went in, but I refuse to apologize as I still feel this was the right thing to do. Less conspicuous, and no one really wants kids and animals to find their way in here by accident. We find our way back and decide to walk back down the easy way. On our way out a car pulls up to us. I think to myself that we are just out for a hike, nothing weird about that. But they just want to ask for directions. “See, that's how at home we look” Ramona giggles as they drive off.



Mission accomplished, we finally wind up at Eidsvoll Station waiting for a train, and this is when we finally have a look at the previously mention picture that was just a wee bit off. It still isn’t right when I can compare it to the pictures that came before and after in close succession. Hadn’t I had like a million pix of that same room for my stop-motion-animation I would have just dismissed this as nothing, but something is definitely out of place here. Something small, shapeless and pitch black appears to be flying past just a meter or so in front of us. There is just no way we could have missed it in complete silence while both of us were looking in that direction. It's not a person, a bird, an animal or curtains moving in the wind. If it could be the works of my worn out camera, I do not know, but it looks very strange.