The evening walk, consisting of a small climb up the mountain path behind the cabin – the sky from there is fabulous – ends with a visit to the beautiful bar at Hotel Vestlia. I order a cognac, my favorite, Hennessy Paradise, in the middle of Henry the VIII’s masturbating on big screen in front of three Norwegians in their 70s. The film, The Tudors, featuring hunk Jonathan Rhys Meyers, is on TV. I gape for a while at Rhys Meyer’s talent. He does a good job. The scene is very erotic and I get aroused. I get my nose in the cognac, take a sip – Henry has not yet had his orgasm – and try to register the Norwegian faces. They don’t flinch. I look at myself and think that it’s rather appropriate that I wear my underwear. Nothing fancy though. It’s my Devold dual layer wool set that I use for yoga and evening walks. As I watch the rest of the film, two conflicting thoughts arise. One from the Ecclesiates: “This too shall pass”. The other from Lynn Hejinian: “Make it go with a single word. We” Am I making any sense? The anticipation of the pleasure of making sense, this too is erotic. Norway and I do not tell stories. We instigate them.


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