Fish in a fishbowl...

I used to have goldfish. Two orange, lovely looking fringetails, which seemed to live happily in their quite generous bowl.

I fed them every day, changed their water every two weeks and bought new water plantain on pretty regular basis. The fish didn’t eat a lot from the fish meal I bought, but they sure loved the plants.

I decorated the bed with tiny ceramic pots and plastic pearls. All in all it was a pretty decorative ornament in the livingroom.

Of course I didn’t really choose to get the fish to begin with; my son had a friend who lived in a house with a huge fishtank, and every now and again he presented his wish; that he too would get a goldfish.

One night I attended an annual meeting. We were quite a few people at this meeting, and the tables were decorated with nicely folded napkins and a vase with water in it... and a goldfish swimming in tiny circles.

At the end of the meeting the chairman announced, in a way too cheerful way, that we needed to check under our seats. Under one chair at each table there would be a note taped to the seat, and who ever sitting on that chair got the fish... and the vase to bring it home in.

I was so relieved not to get the note. I am a mum; I know who will end up tending to the living creature, and believe me: it is NOT the kid who really wants and wish for it.

The relief didn’t last very long , though, cause my friend sitting next to me handed me the vase and declared that: “This is from me to your son! I know he wants a goldfish, so this is not for you: It is to your son!”

There are many ways to corner a person; this is one of the most efficient ones.

So... reluctantly, I walked home on the icy street balancing this vase with a goldfish in it. To be honest I considered, several times, to unfortunately slip and by accident drop the vase, but then I thought about the broken glass and kids who might cut themselves or bikes with punctuated tyres and I decided against it.

Then I came to think about how I would end up picking the  squirmish fish up, trying to save it because I could never cope watching the fish just die, and I ended up saving myself from my own stupidity.

Which proved to be a good thing when I got home.

When I got home, my son looked up briefly to say hi, then looked again to notice the vase.... and then, he looked again and was totally extatic! He jumped up from the sofa with a giant smile on his face, took the vase from me, placed it on the table right in front of him, sat down resting his chin in his palm and just watched the fish... for quite some time. (I think I developed fond feelings for the fish then and there. To make either of my sons to sit still for some time is quite an achievement.) Then he ran to his room and came back with a notebook and a pen:

“We need to write a shopping list! The fish needs a bowl, grass, food and a friend!” You can’t really argue when your son is showing consideration for someone’s or something’s wellbeing, so he wrote the shopping list and went to bed.

After work the next day I went shopping. It was not a cheap visit to the pet shop, but it was worth it. My son beamed with happiness and the bowl looked beautiful.

However, it didn’t take long untill my son lost interest, and the only time he bothered to comment on the fish was when he knew it was time to change the water and clean the bowl.

My friends comforted me when I complained about the fish and the routine (and I did complain, even though I secretly enjoyed the pretty element on display in my livingroom. I placed it in front of a mirror, under a spotlight and it looked gorgeous).

They all told me not to worry: goldfish do not live for long, it would soon come to an end.

Two years later I began to worry the fish would die any day.

It is strange, now that I think about it,but i didn’t dread or worry about the fish dying untill then.

4 years and 3 months after my son got the fish as a present from my friend, he died.

I wanted so bad he would just vanish... but he didn’t.

The limp fish had to be scooped out of the water and I put it in a big matchbox, wadded with cotton, for my kids to bury him in. They were very persistent about that. Later that day I stood in the pouring rain, freezing my fingers numb, as I watched the surreal burial my kids arranged for a fish who had lived for so long in a bowl in our livingroom. Beautiful, and yet so little paid attention to.

6 months later the second fish died. During those 6 months I fed him every day, changed his water every two weeks and bought new water plantain on pretty regular basis. The fish didn’t eat a lot from the fish meal I bought, but he sure loved the plants.

I decorated the bed with tiny ceramic pots and plastic pearls. All in all it was a pretty decorative ornament in the livingroom.

Every morning I dreaded and worried about the fish would be dead when I went downstairs...  And then, one morning, he died.

I wanted so bad he would just vanish... but he didn’t.

The limp fish had to be scooped out of the water and I put it in a big matchbox, wadded with cotton, for my kids to bury him in. They were very persistent about that. Later that day I stood in the pouring rain, freezing my fingers numb, as I watched the surreal burial my kids arranged for a fish who had lived for so long in a bowl in our livingroom. Beautiful, and yet so little paid attention to.

And suddenly it was over. No more routine on tending to the fish. No more feeding every day, no more changing the water every two weeks and no more buying new water plantain on regular basis.

Strange how something so trifling affects your everyday...

Makes me think about my own life. The paralellism might be somewhat far off, but I am a woman, a mother, a housewife, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a teacher, a coworker, a coach, a customer, a friend (at least I hope I am considered one), and many, many more. I act out many roles and I am brave enough to say I often wish I didn't have to. Yet, they are all parts which make me me... and then, once and again on those rare, but treasured, occasions I get to be just me. And when that happens I discover again how I miss being and doing all the little, trifle things I do every day without anyone really noticing, and together they add up to be what makes me the person I am.

The full music experience...

I listen to music, a lot of it and most genres. I talk to people about music, and most are into one, or just a few, genres because of the beat or lifestyle connected to it.

I am not very hung up in genre, I am interested in what artists have to say. Or perhaps express is a better way of putting it. That is where I focus.

It's the artists that give me good, present texts I continue to listen to, those who give me challenges in

addition to the music; Regardless of instruments, beat or image.

I like the songs I feel that I totally understand. Music which express a mood, feeling or stand, in addition to contents. I so admire the skills some musicians have to work their instrument, to tear sounds from their instrument, or voice, which express emotions and create harmony in me. At times I just turn the volume up high, lie on the floor and let the music wash over me. Feeling as one with the elements.

I admit it: I'm a word freak. I do not always notice the sound cheating or if the bass sounds a bit sour. Maybe because I do not listen hard enough, and instead think: I know these songs, I know the lyrics, I know the pauses, the phrasing, the transitions, the voices... But I love to hear them again and again directly mediated through the intense communication between me and the music. I anticipate the text, a line that I might hear something new into, that gives me a new way of perceiving the song.

And often, when I hear the songs I listen to them, over and over again: the first, the second, and third time...

And listening to the music often gives me just as much, if not more, as if I read literature. You know; proper literature, reputabel literature, written by authors highly regarded for their wordcraft.

Music provides the chance to experience a contemporary community that's there without having to talk about it. In many ways both music (with its sound and lyrics) and literature activates some of the same receiver unit in me. I open myself to someone else's thoughts and engage in dialogue with another's view of the world.

I try to understand and harmonize with this view of my world, and to make it something I can relate to and understand.

When I read, I listen to someone’s voice, his view upon life, just like I do when I listen to, or read, lyrics

Sometimes I communicate with a particular song, almost arguing with it, and then I find I relate indifferent to it. It depends on how I set my mind there and then. I don’t always feel the light attitude towards life. It is not always the right thing for me to live in the moment... but some times it is.

Music is all about movement. It's all about rhythm, the communication that may change between performances in different settings.

If you know the songs well, you notice the differences in performances.

Music has two dimensions to create their expression, whereas text has one. Musical highlights invites text into dialogue with it; it can verify it, or it can disprove it.

Both the music and the text reaches the listener and goes together in a whole. The lyrics with its poetry or prose creates meanings and engage in dialogue with the reader or listener. The musical setting limitsthe lyrics. The music can be changed and varied, while the text remains unchanged.

A song engage me differently if it is performed by a band with full power, or just vocals and guitar or saxophone. Rock beat gives me a completely different experience than when I hear it acoustically. Same text, different perception; Same contents. The whole package; setting, beat, lyrics, mood... gives me a different inner experience of the contents every time I listen. And to me, that is the gift music gives me: The possebility to admire how someone out there express my own existence so much better than I can ever possibly do myself.