Stolen wall

Stolen street art in Lofoten, Norway. Read about it in the newspaper:

http://www.lofotposten.no/lokale_nyheter/article5556437.ece

Street artist Pøbel decorated fire wall on an abandoned house at Skjerpen in Vesvågøy municipality in 2010. Now, one of the walls is gone.

It looks like art theft of big proportions. One of the short walls and parts of the long wall is gone.

- We saw people by the house three or fire weeks ago. They drove two big cars, but we did not think much about it. There are people all the time by the house, looking at the street art, says neighbour Odd-Egil Benjaminsen.

He lives 200 meter away from the house, and sees parts of the abandoned house from his windows, but not the wall that have been removed. So he didn't noticed any thing unusually until last Thursday.

- I drove up with my snowmobile to have a look at our well. On my way down again I passed the house and noticed that the wall was gone, Benjaminsen tells.

He has been in contact with the house owner, who knew nothing about it.

The cultural administrator of Vestvågøy municipality, Camilla Skadberg, therefore thinks this is an art theft.

– Dolk and Pøbel are always in contact with the house owners before they do anything. This is also so bad done technically, that I don't think they have anything to do with it. The house is ruined, she says.

Dolk and Pøbel are presenting their work with pseudonyms. Lofotposten have not been able to get in touch with the artists.

The police have been at the place.

Min stamfar var en luring

Petter Christian Høyer heter han. Fødested: Ukjent (evnt. Molde). Mor: Ukjent. Far: Ukjent. Noen ganger sier han at han vet hvem moren er, og faren. Andre ganger sier han at han ikke vet hvem de er. Noen ganger sier han at han er født i Molde. Noen ganger skriver han seg for Kristiansen i stedet for Høyer. Man tror at mormoren heter Høyer. Spørsmålet blir da hvor han henter Kristiansen fra?

Alt dette varierer med hva han skal oppnå. Om han skal gifte seg eller betale skatt - kan det se ut som. Petter slet ut tre kjerringer og fikk 15 unger. Dermed er han stamfar til halve Arnøya.

Kjerringene hentet han fra samme familie. De var av "god stand". Selv påstår han enkelte ganger at han er født i Molde og at faren er en engelsk adelsmann, eller det legges opp til at man kan spekulere fritt i det. Dermed satt gamlingene ute i Akkarvik og i Årvik og spekulerte og frydet seg over at de kunne ha en engelsk lord som stamfar. Er han den Petter Christian Høyer som er fødd i Molde i 1793, så kan kan det like gjerne ha vært en engelsk båtsmann på fylla i Molde. Slektsgranskerne klør seg i hodet.

Det interessante her er at ingen av gamlingene interesserte seg for den kvinnlige greina av slekta.

Sønnen, Kristian Pettersen Høyer hentet også kone fra samme stand. Anne Kathrine Vendelboe Thygesdatter, og hun stammet fra Thyggesen Borch, som var inngift med Bugge-slekta. Da begynner det å svinge. Her er slektstreet til min oldefar Kristian Kristiansen, som stiftet gården vår i Akkarvik. Nå er det bare å klikke seg oppover i stamtreet til ho Anne Kathrine. Dette svinger av! Her treffer vi på en rekke danske adelsnavn tilbake til 1400 og 1200-tallet:

• Bugge
• Gyldenstjerne
• Saltensee
• Vendelboe

Da finner du danske riddere som har eid slott, vært medlem av Riksrådet og hatt våpenskjold.

Niels Eriksen Gyldenstjerne, ridder, født 1240. Gyldenstjerne er omtalt i Hamlet av William Shakespear.

Her er våpenskjoldene til Gyldenstjerne, Bugge og Vendelboe (forøvrig fant jeg våpenskjoldet til Vendelboene foruroligende).





Men det heftigste er at vi kommer inn til Buggene, Niels Bugge født 1235. Som var riddere, eide Hald Slott og var med i Riksrådet i Danmark.

Ridder Niels Bugge var sin tids rikeste adelsmann. Han var en vakker mann med et ridderlig ytre, myndig, men også aktet for sin edelmodighet. Barnebarnet eide seks slott og ble kalt Kong Bugge.

Ikke akkurat rettlinjet, men man tar det man få!.

Write me

I haven't heard from you in a while
I go down to the ocean
every day now
I wade through the surf zone
- every
sunday morning
in case your stuck
I search for answears
paper cuts
another bottle
open
It was not this one either

Ny turkompis!

Kunne nesten ikke tro hvor heldig jeg var. Pá samme måte som niseskallen ble jeg ledet rett på den. Hadde håpet på en bedre fugleskalle siden det er ravnereir her, men dette er jo nesten for fantastisk! Og for 10 min siden holdt jeg på å snu fordi kondisen var skral. Tenk det! Denne vil gjøre seg i relikviesamlinga mi :-D

Kval i fjorden

Så kval i fjorden i dag. Første dagen jeg ser kval i fjorden. Bruker å stå i stuevinduet og kikke. Tror det var grindkval jeg så. Jeg har kikkert. Det var grindkval jeg så i kikkerten i kveld. Jeg tror det var grindkval jeg så i kikkerten. To kval. Kanskje var det niser. Noen sier kikkerten min er dårlig. Noen sier at jeg kan se bedre uten kikkert. Hun synes jeg kjøper dårlige kikkerter. Det kan ha vært en annen kval. For jeg har dårlig kikkert. Det var første gangen jeg så kval i fjorden. Første gang jeg så grindkval i Varangerfjorden. Jeg bruker å stå i stua og se i kikkerten. Jeg så grindkval på fjorden i kveld. Grindkvalen er svart. Den har ei rund finne. Grindkvalen er svart med ei rund finne. Finna stikker opp når jeg ser i kikkerten. Grindkvalen dykker og kommer opp når den går. Det kan være to kval. De dykker og kommer opp etter hverandre. Det kan hende det er niser jeg ser i kikkerten. I kveld er første kvelden jeg ser kval på fjorden. Jeg bruker å se i kikkerten. Se ut gjennom vinduet med kikkerten. Da ser jeg kval på fjorden. Før brukte jeg å se uten kikkerten. Da så jeg ikke kval på fjorden. Nå har jeg kikkert jeg bruker å se kval på fjorden i. Jeg brukte å stå i stua og kikke etter kval på fjorden. Speide utover fjorden. Ut gjennom vinduet. For å se etter kval på fjorden.

Here too

i see you all around

Sweet smell of morning

in the autumn.

Misty grey.

Smells of leaves and morning rain.

Erika

Erika seems to be a popular flower now.

"  Last chance

3 Erika

Only NOK:

 98  "

I miss you

my weird old friend the sea

Flickering trough old pictures

Nice and cold
Børvågen in april

Gratulerer med dagen!

Det er en fin julidag i dag.

obladi oblada. Life goes on - fine.

For you

Qb abg nfx
Ubj ner lbh,
nyy gur gvzr

V jvyy or svar
V nz svar
V qba'g guvax lbh ner cynlvat
V unir frra lbh fuvire

Ybbxvat nurnq
sbe orggre gvzrf
Zl cyna
lbh nfx

Ybat-grez
Fnj lbh ynfg lrne
fcbxr gb lbh guvf lrne
Gurer ner guerr zber lrnef
gb pbzr

sbe zl cyna

fvfh vf nagure jbeq sbe cngvrapr
V bayl unir cngvrapr

Like a killer whale

my icelandic heroine
sings

If you forget my name
You will go astray
Like a killer whale
Trapped in a bay

a killer whale
swimming among
ice bergs
preying on herring

that will
be some life

she will never now
one day.

concrete

walls
surrounding us
- what will i do
she repeats

bunkers does not give concrete answers

two

walking the beach
together
in opposite directions

Disturbing

things
in a shower
nothing
that can't be fixed
with broken memories and a bottle

Bleeding doesn't help

Bleeding doesn't help
by Martin Kristiansen

when you're eyes are gone

picked by crows

hollow eyes
staring in to the night

on a moonlit polar beach

cold as the sea

Healthy breakfast

A breakfast should always be healthy

- to the soul

I have

black coffee
olives
cigars

in bed

tonight is Christmas Eve

Guiding star

star,
originally uploaded by Martin Kristiansen.

My guiding star. My polar star.My north star. For other's it's just a Christmas star. For me it is hope. Like a treasure hidden up north. Now I have moved up north again. Still it represents hope to me.

Me and Linn

Meg og Linn,
originally uploaded by Martin Kristiansen.

Of all my photos, this might be the one I like the most.

Me and Linn where inseparables. At least until the army ordered her father to serve in another part of the country.

We were always on the run. There were things to discover, dismantle or repair. We were four year's old, and the world was one big adventure.

Ballantine's and a nudie dip

Nothing that a bottle of whisky and a nudie dip can't cure. - I need this one. Countergirl at the liquor store smile at me. I hand her the Ballantine's. - 299, thank you. Have a nice evening.

Car parked. Shoes tossed away. Trousers over the sofa. Shirt goes the same way.

- Nothing that Ballantines can't cure. Crack says the cap. Sissle says the good stuff. Sprinkled over the ice.

Sweat dripple down. Through my beard. On my tummy. Stops at the elastic. Panties wet with sweat. I cherish the sun. Naked at my veranda. A Tuesday afternoon.

- Nothing that a nudie dip can't cure. Half way through the bottle. Wrap a towel around the tray. Pack down two glass. My cellular goes the same way.

I nod at the barbecue party, on top of their garage veranda. Next to the beach. This is what they see:

To sandals. Blue cooling bag. Glass of whisky. Pantied man.

Staring down in the light blue sea. I will have a heart attack. Heart will stop beating, reaching the Atlantic.

Snapping for air. Cold water dripping through my hair. Were doing fine. Old buddy. Not in too good a shape. Still standing for a cold dip.

Swim towards the rocks. Making sure I will not drown. The cold won't take me. Turn around and head for an islet.

Warm kelp. Hot stones. I watch the garage party. They watch me. There's some activity in their neighbors house. I see someone at the window. Window goes up and down. Up and down in the red house. House wife gone mad. Cleaning out the heat.

Reaching for ice. I beat the tray against the rocks. Fill my glass with ice. Sprinkle more Ballantine's over it. Heavy glass. Nice glass. Bought it for survival times - like this.

A friend comes by. - There was an ambulance up at the red house. A woman fainted. They took her away.

- Maybe she saw something she couldn't handle, I reply.

Bollocksing our way through the bottle. Gnat bites. Sun colling down. We head back to his place. There will be some cognac on he table. I know.

Wake up fine at 7am. Can't find my panties. But then again. I'm probably not the first to wake up after a round of scotch, not knowing where the panties are.

At work. Same old stuff. Writing. Talking. Talking. Writing. Then it hits me with full force. I cling to the keyboard. Knowing that I some day will meet my creator. Not only some day - but this very moment.

I need something else to think of. Grab my camera bag. Drive down the main street. Out of the city center. A quarter later my mind is set on other things.