busy with it for ages afterwards. Reports can be written, wall charts and collages can be made, and furthermore contacts for life can be sealed.
Questions are asked concerning alcohol. I raise my hand and suggest that pupils be given permission to drink some alcohol, but the other parents do not agree. Come on, I say. Let the young ones have a free rein. Let them drink themselves silly and stagger home to the hotel as the cock crows. We’re doing them a disservice by protecting them as we do, but I’m met by incomprehension. In fact, I have the impression that they consider me outrageous, not quite on this planet. Life has become like that. Cycle helmets and safety precautions everywhere. My daughter will have permission anyway, as much as she wants, I say in defiance, while the other parents look away.
Under Any Other Business I say that in my opinion the barter economy should be on the curriculum. Young people should be encouraged to exchange goods and services rather than buying everything in sight. The future of the earth depends on it, I say. For humans do not own the earth, I say. The earth owns us humans. Flowers are our sisters, and the horse, the great eagle, not to mention the moose, are our brothers. So how can you buy or sell anything? For who owns the heat in the air or the sound of the wind in the trees? And the sap in the branches contains the memory of those who have preceded us. And the gurgle of the brook carries within it my father’s voice and in turn his father’s. And we have to teach our children that the ground we walk on contains the ashes of our forefathers and that everything that happens to the earth will happen to us and that if we spit on the earth we are spitting on ourselves, and by the way, I say, while I’m at it, is anyone here willing to swap some fruit for moose meat? I take two to three kilos of meat out of my bag and smack it down on the desk. It’s good meat, I say. Smoked, tasty. And all I want is a handful of bananas and some nursery-friendly fruit in exchange. No one takes me up on the offer until afterwards when we’re on the way out. Then the father of one of Nora’s nicest and poshest girlfriends comes up to me and says he would like the meat. And we go in his car to a petrol station where goes in and buys a carrier-bagful of assorted fruit and then drives me home. He comments that I look different and tentatively asks what I’m doing at the moment. I suppose he must have heard something or other from his nice daughter. I’ve moved into the forest, I tell him. I’ve handed in my notice at work and moved into the forest because it was the only sensible thing to do. He nods. The forest is fickle, he says, as I get out of the car, so be careful. You’re wrong, I say. The forest is gentle and friendly. It’s the sea which is fickle. And the mountains. But the forest is predictable and less confusing than almost every other place. Whereas you cannot trust the sea or the mountains or people in any way at all, I say, so you can place your life in the forest’s hands without any qualms. For the forest listens and understands, I say. It doesn’t destroy; it restores and allows things to grow. The forest appreciates and accommodates everything.
‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to be careful nevertheless.’
‘You should be careful yourself,’ I say.
When I arrive home Nora has put Gregus to bed and is sitting watching TV. It’s a documentary programme about how all those who worked on the Lord of the Rings films made friendships for life. They miss each other terribly now the filming is over, and some of them are down and lack the motivation to tackle new projects. Nora thinks it’s sad, I can see. But she smiles to herself when the cast talk about wonderful, crazy things that were done and said in the make-up caravans and on the set. Life wasn’t always a bed of roses however. Often they had to get up at the crack of dawn and sit for hours having the big
Questions are asked concerning alcohol. I raise my hand and suggest that pupils be given permission to drink some alcohol, but the other parents do not agree. Come on, I say. Let the young ones have a free rein. Let them drink themselves silly and stagger home to the hotel as the cock crows. We’re doing them a disservice by protecting them as we do, but I’m met by incomprehension. In fact, I have the impression that they consider me outrageous, not quite on this planet. Life has become like that. Cycle helmets and safety precautions everywhere. My daughter will have permission anyway, as much as she wants, I say in defiance, while the other parents look away.
Under Any Other Business I say that in my opinion the barter economy should be on the curriculum. Young people should be encouraged to exchange goods and services rather than buying everything in sight. The future of the earth depends on it, I say. For humans do not own the earth, I say. The earth owns us humans. Flowers are our sisters, and the horse, the great eagle, not to mention the moose, are our brothers. So how can you buy or sell anything? For who owns the heat in the air or the sound of the wind in the trees? And the sap in the branches contains the memory of those who have preceded us. And the gurgle of the brook carries within it my father’s voice and in turn his father’s. And we have to teach our children that the ground we walk on contains the ashes of our forefathers and that everything that happens to the earth will happen to us and that if we spit on the earth we are spitting on ourselves, and by the way, I say, while I’m at it, is anyone here willing to swap some fruit for moose meat? I take two to three kilos of meat out of my bag and smack it down on the desk. It’s good meat, I say. Smoked, tasty. And all I want is a handful of bananas and some nursery-friendly fruit in exchange. No one takes me up on the offer until afterwards when we’re on the way out. Then the father of one of Nora’s nicest and poshest girlfriends comes up to me and says he would like the meat. And we go in his car to a petrol station where goes in and buys a carrier-bagful of assorted fruit and then drives me home. He comments that I look different and tentatively asks what I’m doing at the moment. I suppose he must have heard something or other from his nice daughter. I’ve moved into the forest, I tell him. I’ve handed in my notice at work and moved into the forest because it was the only sensible thing to do. He nods. The forest is fickle, he says, as I get out of the car, so be careful. You’re wrong, I say. The forest is gentle and friendly. It’s the sea which is fickle. And the mountains. But the forest is predictable and less confusing than almost every other place. Whereas you cannot trust the sea or the mountains or people in any way at all, I say, so you can place your life in the forest’s hands without any qualms. For the forest listens and understands, I say. It doesn’t destroy; it restores and allows things to grow. The forest appreciates and accommodates everything.
‘OK, OK,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to be careful nevertheless.’
‘You should be careful yourself,’ I say.
When I arrive home Nora has put Gregus to bed and is sitting watching TV. It’s a documentary programme about how all those who worked on the Lord of the Rings films made friendships for life. They miss each other terribly now the filming is over, and some of them are down and lack the motivation to tackle new projects. Nora thinks it’s sad, I can see. But she smiles to herself when the cast talk about wonderful, crazy things that were done and said in the make-up caravans and on the set. Life wasn’t always a bed of roses however. Often they had to get up at the crack of dawn and sit for hours having the big
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