| Maximo Park Diary Entries |
| These are diary entries by Maximo Park members from the Official Maximo Park Website. |
Bergen, Norway |
 |
| 01 Sep, 2006 |
"Nothing's forever, mate."
We dive and swoop through powder clouds and steady ourselves. Through the glazing, the land is scattered and broken, containing little shapes of water that reflect the iron sky.
There's something smooth about this rock-ridden coastline. It seems like the only landscape that fits the mimicry of model-making: too pristine to be true. Pines stand erect, side by side, as if planted by an enthusiastic schoolboy creating forests from superglue and cheap plastic. Lumps of land look like they've been painted by the sandy beige and gun-metal grey that you get from tiny, round tins of modelling paint.
We land safely and after freeing ourselves of luggage, we begin to walk.
A group of men in their late thirties stand huddled around some accordians on the dock. They seem agitated, their tanned, weathered faces unable to muster any good humour. The bright buildings appear squeezed together like the folded-up bellows in the men's instruments.
Above the city we climb, through underground tunnels, diagonally. Overhead lights turn the curved stone red. Further up, the ceiling is draped, giving us the effect of passengers cruising through an endoscope, delving amongst the folded surface area of an oesophagus. From the top of the mountain, boats slither across barely moving water, leaving snail-trail spirals behind them.
Steep steps dusted with pine needles lead to a bandstand without a band. Without a roof. The pine wood is freshly tinged with new-banana green, especially within its knots that swirl like an Edvard Munch sky. It still bears the ruler and pencil lines of its carpenter and if you put your nose against it for a second you can smell its familar freshness, remaining damp from late morning rain.
A steamer sends its horn outwards and it filters through the branches to reach us despite the altitude. A hard sound, it seems to me.
Faded copper drains stick out from the light, dappled gravel at strange angles like the last remaining chocolate buttons in a pick 'n mix.
Back in town I notice how a school playground spills onto the street with little supervision and no barriers. A woman leaves her child in its pram outside a cafe as she pops inside for a coffee. She has lived in Bournemouth and speaks perfect English. The child's father is from London and he is trying to find work in Bergen in the field of IT, but his lack of Norwegian is proving to be a hindrance.
I can't imagine such trust where children are concerned in Britain.
Now, I sit next to a heated pond that contains plants that would have flourished in Victorian times. Water lilys bloom upwards. They have white petals tinged with pink and they are shaped like wet paintbrushes, pointed at the tip; flawless.
The green leaves that cover most of the water's surface are curling upwards at the edges, cupped and needy. Some are diseased and limp. Inside these fibrous trays, sit tremulous, miniature puddles that hold particles of black dirt.
The square of water that contains this fauna is so overcrowded that the reflections are useless. They say nothing about the ornate buildings that overlook the gardens, but can still bear closer details if you peer into a crack in the floating foliage.
I move through town, past fountains, past a man getting rid of his small change in a newsagents by dumping coins on the counter.
Paul And The Park |
|
| Partners |
|
|
|
