Asema Småfortelling Short Stories + Comments

copyright Asema

Asema fortelling primo 2000 


 1: Sangen om felles jord

 



Sangen om felles jord.                    Tekst av Asema                                            1 : 1

Ho hang på et bilde i gangen, det var et av de første vi så. Mammas venninne smilte fra veggen i mange år. Ho hang der med goe øya, og vi kunne sjå og sjå, det va en varme der som holdt mæ sånn. . . . Ho kom fra det stedet de sa va en gudsforlatt plass; innerst i Nordlandsfanget, der kom ingen prestemakt. Og oppå den heia kor verden var digerstor, fødtes ei lita Beia, der fikk ho lære sangen om felles jord. I disen ho dissa langs fjellan, de delte alt godt i fjor`n der – mens sangan kom te. Folk, fe, ja all i hop fikk omsorg – og land og bruk med. Uten - og med loven, med skriftan - og uten ord, det gikk nesten ut på det samme, de delte på smått og stort.

Om du blar i eldgamle teksta, finn du kanskje ordet `asebeia`, det kom ifra sør. Der de va så redd førr nordlandsheksa at de påla landet og folkan et syndens pøl! Tankan va kasta fram i svart – kvit trengsel – og ingen ting mjukt i mella; det va ei føring med såkalt ` sannhet` fra bleike løgna.

Men alltid bar nordlandet navnet hellig; Helgeland, Hålogaland; Halleland og Helleland fra urgammel tid. Her omkring steinland og helle, disen i havet og Lillemora med stor forstand, - her fantes også Moder Natur - i klart vann. Ja, ho va en kjenning med godt og klokt på lur. Ho va god å råde sæ me når folk va i tvil, når de  la ut på tur.

Ennu den dag i dag skin ho med oss Moder Mange, æ ser ho førr mæ med lilleguten ligganes på fang. Omkring kyststripen her kan vi ro oss litt nedpå og vi kan skråle med artige kvin, - store landskap gir store sprang. Vi veit om ei stillhet som skape no større, vi kjenne når lysmørket sprenge på og liksom banke gløden inn og ut, - her leves te ekstremtemperatura og inn tel margen tål, - vi flire meir enn vi syt. Mørke måna kan bli lang, så vi lade opp førr nødvendig livsbalanse i et – på det jevne- kaldt land. Vi ropa det ikkje akkurat ut, men sommarn e den beste i verden.

Ho Beia reiste fra plassen da verdenskrigen og nøden tvang folkan sør. Ennu en gang va det vandrar – tid og bør på bør. Fortidas skygga om tvungen bevegelse og meir frihetstrang, kom som gjentatt, og mykje va befenkt me fattig skam. Tel hovedstaden kom ho Beia og der stod ho i fleire valg og kjærligheta kom først: Den forma ho klok, kjærligheta blei ikkje som et fall eller et erstatningsknot eller evig tørst. Vi fær og vi farte og ikkje alltid av løst. Nordlandsfolket har spredd sæ fra Moderlandet te fjærne strøk. Ei tid etter mamma døde, møtte æ Beia – engelen fra unge år, ho utstrålte mykje og meir; den krafta va som en fullverdig vår!

Nu sett det ei ung ei på en buss over grensa i gråvær, – ho søke asyl. Ho kjenne te skam og lengsel, ho har fløkta fra nedrig kaos og rør. På flukt fra den lunka tralten ja, - kor livet e som føde for meire sult – og ingen, ingen går fri. Hit kjæm ho, nord i verden, ho har hørt vi e utrulig rik. Andre unge sett på andre bussa og et hælvet bryt laus når de kjæm. Det e sant at nån har spredd løgna om landet her. Det ryktes vi leve slaraffenliv og gjør ingenting og slæng! Her e nok nån som ikkje veit om rike lands marginale få, - om fattigfolks dårlige helse, om magre distrikta som slit og slit, ja - her og leve folk i betinga, forferdelig driv. Også her strømme pængan mest førr rike lenger sør og de som kan skaffe sæ folk svart, - mange arbeide her med betinga uverdig og altfor hardt. Og fremmede fugla finn kjæresta her og mange her fær ut og hente heim, og alt e ikkje heilt bra når vi ser litt skrått på etterslepet av forspilt liv, tid med egodriv og slett menneskeverd - i det som skulle ha vært gode heim.

Men ho jenta på bussen over grensa, ho e så ung og klok. Ho legg ikkje fram bedraget, men satse på beste kort. Ho vil gi av sitt gode i landet, ho vil ikkje være tel skam eller tidsførdriv.

Ho Beia kom ifra Beiarn, nesten overjordisk skjønn - over tid. Der lærte ho sangen med rom for veldige ord. Den sangen gir plass te fleire med ønska om friar liv. Og jenta har med sæ en likens, ho en gang lærte i landet der øst, - ja sørpå stemme de og i førr friar røst.

Ta vel imot ho siste, førr ho e ei som treng trøst. Kanskje en gang i verden, da ser ho ned fra et bilde og smile en uendelig varm høst. Gode gåte - ta vare på jora førr alle, ta vare på felles tid. Førr vi alle treng både ord og bilda uansett kordan framtida blir. Det kan være den fær med jag og kanskje savn og skit. Sanga kan bære mjuke bilda rundt heile liv, humane verdia, trosliv, - vi treng alle håpet om livsglede, verdighet og likeverdig tid.

Asema Oslo og Mosjøen 1999 - 2002.                        copyright Asema





                                              copyright Asema
                 Asema Shorts stories primo 2000


1: The Sign

 2: My News For You

 3: A Good Place To Be




The Sign.                                                                     

A short story by Asema                                                                1 1/ 3 page


On a white – covered Oslo evening, late November, she asked him if he`d like to walk downtown. On the first Sunday of Advent. They had agreed to join together the pleasure of a live concert with the most famous contemporary Samish artist Mari Boine.

When out in the street, the sound had taken another mode of quietness – due to the carpet of big snowflakes covering everything in view. They walked by the river, small talking. The snow fell softly, like in slow – motion which made a distinct light with a nightly atmosphere. Oddly enough, this reminded me of the softest Irish drizzle. We chose the path by the river.

My comrade made me aware of some beautiful torch – lights placed in the snow – close by `The Bridge of Sighs` that my friend Tree used to call it; full of fairy tale statues as it was too. We could watch this light – mark from quite a distance. As we moved closer, we recognized that the torches were positioned like the pattern of the anonymously made peace mark placed exactly there, last summer. The mark embedded in flowers by secret hands and added – in some sort of coherent belonging, by a question mark too; - on the opposite side of the river. Someone wanted us to be aware of something, - and perhaps act upon the problems around our human condition, act with empathy and altruistic love. If the air was laden with emotions of advent and the coming turn of the winter – sun, a togetherness now established, like illuminated with ecstatic warmth. My heart jumped up lively, and I burst out in joy, grateful for the walk. Simultaneously, we became like nailed to the ground in front of a sight like transcendent: The outline of a man there; He sat inside the circle of torches, - completely still, frozen in a transparent state, and still quite visible there – in the lower part of the peace – mark.

Small branches and some bush surrounded him, it looked like he saw straight towards us, - facing us directly. My comrade started with a whisper, - then raised his voice to a shout; `I know him. I`ve seen him before!. . . . hoo ` We had not spoken yet. Instantly I felt the perfect timing from this subtle spirit, the evening provided a wonderful cover to the image.

With a few words, we simply confirmed what we saw, the details of the figure like reaching out to us. Both humbly touched and filled with tenderness and seriousness. In some sense, this image was like a warning – sign too. My friend took to his voice in spontaneous song,

and I joined of course. Finally, we walked – though reluctantly now, away from under the bridge, and soon found ourselves upon it.

Now, we could watch the sign at closer range, at he still sat there in no emotion! The man had a clear polar image, and he was clothed for cold winter, in leather like an ancient outfit.

The two of us stood beside the sculpture of the huge bear and the young woman. We were approximately 15 meters away from the spot of the peace mark torches. Now, the ancient man faded. And, inside me, I all fell into place – partly because of another image close beside us. Another sign that made me tune into the power of love. I had the dearest memory of love where we stood – in front of the woman's bosom. A torch had been placed right there. I felt gratitude, being given such a pure simplicity. Hope bathed intears and silent joy. I whispered, you see, we could not use much sound - in the delightful quietness that overwhelmed us.

Slowly, slowly, without breaking the silence, we continued, ready for the concert. And how grand it was. The Lady shared a wide - specter expression of life, we felt included and could confirm essence and - discover more of a musical sphere.

Asema, Oslo 1997









My News For You                                                                                                                                                                  Copyright Asema 1 : 1

                                                                           A short story by Asema 1997


Here is some news from me to you: A black cat stretches herself- drowsily, under the cat – bush tree – family in the Botanical Garden Oslo. All the while- an old birdman feeds the magpies, the crows and ducks and the tit birds* nearby.

I hear his sound thrill- thrill whistle. The birds are fed successively until a few black – cap seagulls arrive. On the bench close to the spring scenario, I sit – in close view of the blooming magnolia tree.

Earlier today I got the confirmation from the states` House – Bank that I will get a small amount to support my need to pay the rent. What a relief! To rent a flat is too expensive for me now, it is not exactly a cheap life being an individual dependent on medical welfare in Oslo. Anyway, I feel lucky, because it is only the ones with a loan in this certain bank, that`s allowed any support in the terms of money - support for the rent only.

A fortnight ago, the remnants of winter` sleep lost hegemony to the coming spring – with some soft sighs in the very last snowfall. Now, the first leaves are unbuttoned and the drizzle feeds the newborn spring as the first infants cry in hope to be fed in their nests. And here now, as my eyes fall upon the old factory` brick chimney, the magpie swoops straight down from it, - diving, and then flip-flapping quickly upwards. The bird is just about managing the manoeuvre, and lands merrily on a branch in the maple tree outside my window. Proud and happy that bird yes! I have plans for this Sunday; namely to spend a day with my dear Swedish friend Ulla  - and later to have dinner with her `Norwegian` family.

Quite soon the two of us were heading for the stony viewpoint up hills. She lives in the countryside outside Oslo. We always walk in `her` scenery,

which is a treat! ( Even while I long for the vast and sort of free land up north. ) In the forest, there`s an opening, and that day we became the audience in a sing-song panorama tree concert. High up and unseen those birds. It sounded like some linnets ` play. As we approached the ancient farmhouse, - a tenants` place, we halted.A thickly branched spruce offered a perfect dry hollow; - the rain poured down now. Rest and nourishment and friendly talk like faded into common thankfulness; we are dependently related to the whole connection, - the All – In – One – Life around us. She says; « To me, this is happiness.»


A moment later, the unknown hunter came towards us, - he had walked long. Obviously glad to meet someone in the wood, so he told us his observations of

the day. ` Told us how he ambivalently enjoyed the possibility of being allowed in short distance of shy, wild animals. He said: « They don`t like us being

around, barely accept us within long distance, you know, so I guess some of the animals have begun to recognize me as the silent fellow trodding carefully on

the paths here. They are no longer that scared of me. May be they should be more afraid, really.  »

I immediately felt he was one of the rare deep – wood walkers one seldom meet, - he seemed ageless, old and young in one. To be honest, one never knows what illusions woodland can bring about, and I - for my part, have a tendency to fantazise. . . . .

As we returned aolong the path leading to the gravel – road down to the parish; I carried material for a new drum stick – saying; « It seems I cannot leave a landscape without bringing with me something of practical use. I bring along something by the spur of the moment, putting a feeling of great value into the object – and thinking - from mother nature herself! «

Later, just before I left to catch the bus, I lay half asleep in their double bed upstairs, but enough awake to read the short story written by my friends` mother with the title `The Waiting`. It was kind of dreamy and about a woman sitting in an old local train station, waiting of course, - and how she started to imagine the surroundings and relate to the young woman on the bench opposite. This being a warm – spreading, genuinly wise story from a woman in Vârmland county, Sweden.

Right now, I lie in my own bed, tending the annual springtime flu. This was my news for you.


Asema, Oslo May 1997. * titbirds/ titting = a small songbird in my native dialect northern Norway.


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A Nice Place To Be                                          copyright Asema

                                                                                        A short text by Asema 08

An old mother carried forth the name of roses from spring to winter – and back again; and - the future became a good place to be.

With all her roles to fill and - as a fellow human being, she carried witness to life itself.

And by her hand, she laid down new material in good soil. She caressed every living thing good at her best, she was not perfect, and still she created some sort of perfection by her kindness.

The same mother is followed by a well of flowers from all the mothers` travel from earth. We don`t know otherwise, but believe they go further away than to the land of dreams as we stand by their graves.


We reflect the mystery in her, we reflect her - and we mirror ourselves in pictures from times` remembrance, and there is a certain beam, some cascades of light round about her. Silently, we now stand behind, she has left us physically, and we thread in wonder by the footsteps of our foremothers.

Now, it is we – ourselves, that in turn – carry good glimpses of lived life. Our faces draw the memory lines too, with features of both joy and sorrow in the same expression.

Humbly we now see, that even in the past and - for that matter, in real time now, the old mother helps us to find a nice place to be.

It is a bit `odd & strange` all these concerned and devoted thoughts around our physically dead mothers: Even dead and seemingly far gone – and, although we don`t make any special effort to invite them in - for a deeper bound, it is like they still find a new life inside us – given time and space. I have had some wonderful dreams with my mother present.

And as they find some space and settle down in different kinds of imagination and dreams, this sort of after- life presence, they finallly make us understand that motherhood still may represent the good and tolerant. And also - not to say - brilliant team- players we`re dependent of to handle real life `properly` - even as `dead` as they may be, the

foremothers seem to be present..

Some image tell us their position, being able of both hindsight and foresight, they seem to inbabit the overall picture that we may have a glimpse of through them, hopefully.

Yes, this image implies a hope and carries a potent impact - if it is like some of our mothers really are able to guid us – inderectly that is, - and, perhaps even better than while they were physically alive. And, so it comes to this more or less vague belief;

Our foremothers may help us live more fully - and so the world may look like a nicer place to be. In this context, our foremothers provide such a safe resort, and it is perhaps like it`s supposed to be, I like to think so – I guess.

And - but, I`m afraid I have my doubts. Doubts - for me, seem to accompany any absolute belief and perspective concerning things we cannot know completely.

Anyway, its a nice feeling to know that our ancestors can help guiding us in future.

An old mother carried the name of roses and life, - and it seems like we younger also bring about some flowery – pictures, this image feels like a good common force in life, and -  makes good sense too.

Asema, Hinnøya 2008





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