Ole

@olepetter

(Northern-)Norwegian, Physicist. 🔰. Mostly posting stuff I find interesting or fun, poetry, or grumbling about Norwegian politics. Tragic optimist.

2950 Siguiendo1389 Seguidores7182 Publicaciones

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Ole@olepetter· 28d

🥶

Værmelding for Harstad, 19.Juli. 10 grader og regn.

Ole@olepetter· 29d

Normalt ville dette vært en litt deprimerende værmelding, men når jeg leser om varmebølgen kjennes det plutselig helt ok ut

Værmelding neste 10 dager i Harstad. 11-16 grader max temperatur for hele perioden.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 13

Jeg var kjempesliten i går, men sov som en sten i natt og det føles bra!

Skjermbilde fra helseapp som viser at jeg har fått 100/100 i score på nattens søvn

Ole@olepetter· Jul 11

One Is One

Heart, you bully, you punk, I’m wrecked, I’m shocked
stiff. You? you still try to rule the world—though
I’ve got you: identified, starving, locked
in a cage you will not leave alive, no
matter how you hate it, pound its walls,
& thrill its corridors with messages.

Brute. Spy. I trusted you. Now you reel & brawl
in your cell but I’m deaf to your rages,
your greed to go solo, your eloquent
threats of worse things you (knowing me) could do.
You scare me, bragging you’re a double agent

since jailers are prisoners’ prisoners too.
Think! Reform! Make us one. Join the rest of us,
and joy may come, and make its test of us.

— Marie Ponsot

Ole@olepetter· Jul 11

Hvis Trump gjør ro-greia er det over

VG: Trump sa til Støre at han tror Norge kan vinne hele VM

USAs president Donald Trump har sagt til statsminister Jonas Gahr Støre (Ap) at han tror Norge kan vinne hele fotball-VM. Det viser en melding fra Støre til landslagstrener Ståle Solbakken og fotballpresident Lise Klaveness, som VG har fått innsyn i.

– Under middagen i går kom han til meg og gratulerte med seieren mot Brasil, deretter sa han at slik han så det kunne Norge vinne hele VM med det laget, skriver Støre til landslagstreneren.

Rosen fra Trump kom under Nato-toppmøtet i Ankara i Tyrkia tidligere denne uka.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 10

Ikke den heftigste sommeren så langt:

Graf som viser temperaturen i Harstad de siste 30 dagene. Med unntak dagen for akkurat 30 dager siden, har temperaturen variert omkring 12 grader

Ole@olepetter· Jul 8

Den halvfärdiga himlen

Modlösheten avbryter sitt lopp.
Ångesten avbryter sitt lopp.
Gamen avbryter sin flykt.

Det ivriga ljuset rinner fram,
även spökena tar sig en klunk.

Och våra målningar kommer i dagen,
våra istidsateljéers röda djur.

Allting börjar se sig omkring.
Vi går i solen hundratals.

Var människa en halvöppen dörr
som leder till ett rum för alla.

Den oändliga marken under oss.

Vattnet lyser mellan träden.

Insjön är ett fönster mot jorden.

— Tomas Tranströmer

Ole@olepetter· Jul 8

The Half-Finished Heaven

Cowardice breaks off on its path.
Anguish breaks off on its path.
The vulture breaks off in its flight.

The eager lights runs into the open,
Even the ghosts take a drink.

And our paintings see the air,
red beasts of the ice-age studios.

Everything starts to look around.
We go out in the sun by hundreds.

Every person is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.

The endless field under us.

Water glitters between the trees.

The lake is a window into the earth.

— Tomas Tranströmer, translated by Robert Bly

Ole@olepetter· Jul 8

Ole@olepetter· Jul 7

A First on TV

This is the twentieth century,
you are there, preparing to skin
a human being alive. Your part
will be to remain calm.

— David Ignatow

Ole@olepetter· Jul 7

A $668bn funding obligation to 2034 that delivers free cash flow that year of negative $48bn sounds less than ideal, though FCF might flip positive to $138bn in 2035 if everything goes to plan, so that's nice. The SpaceX CEO presumably has a long history of delivering products on time and to the required specification that can support such confidence.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 6

# Prayer On Aladdin's Lamp by Marcus Wicker

Grant me shelter & bread.
Grant me porch ledge, mantel.
Scented candles, bed. Grant me
four walls, a 5-foot fridge and a hall.
& maybe four more walls. Yes.
Four more walls. & a desk. &
a decent laptop, plus pleather
rolling chair. So that I might sit
& write you a poem, Lord.
A psalm praising all you’ve given:
Air I sing with. Cricket’s falsetto.
Buzzing bees & nectar—
how chrysanthemum feels
on the tongue
is what you are to me.
You see what I am doing here.
You see, I am being so sincere,
Sire. Which is sad. Still, grant me
a few free hours each day. Grant me
a Moleskine pad & a ballpoint pen
with some mass. Grant me your gift
of this voice Pages & pages
of this voice, in a good book
from a loving press. & grant me
a great love, too. Grant a way
to provide for my love. Like,
a tenure-track job
at a small college in the Midwest.
The kind with poems
& papers to read. With hoodies
running in & out of my office.
Deadlines, paychecks, &
An OK 401(k). Grant me
everything, Lord. Not today.
But before 28. Be Bulldozer.
Genie. Let every prayer avalanche
me into dust, blank matter. Debris.
Make me worthy. O Lord, make me me.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 6

A black and white photograph of a calm sea beneath a cloudy sky, with a distant sailboat on the horizon and mountains visible in the background.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 5

Two-panel comic of a Jesus-like figure preaching to a crowd. His speech bubbles say "VALID VALID VALID" and "YOU'RE ALL VALID." Bottom caption: "The people were ASTONISHED at his doctrine. Matt. 5:27-28."

Ole@olepetter· Jul 5

The Real Work

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

— Wendell Berry

Ole@olepetter· Jul 5

Tar en liten søndagstur til Grassholman. Idyllisk! Merkelig lite folk til å være finværsdag i ferien.

Foto av en sandstrand med noen bygninger ved siden. Fint vær, fjell i bakgrunnen.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 4

The Age Demanded

The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.

The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.

— Ernest Hemingway

Ole@olepetter· Jul 4

In the story The First Sally (A) or Trurl’s Electronic Bard, we encounter a newly constructed
machine that can write poetry. The basis of the concept behind the software for this electronic
bard is that all poets are products of civilization, one where the mind of a poet is a sort
of program working with accumulated information. Thus, it seems obvious that if we feed the
entire history of human civilization into the machine, it should be able to generate poetry, having
been given some understanding of what poetry is. After generating some incomprehensible
garbage, Trurl’s machine begins to create complex poetry and eventually exceeds in quality and
quantity the work of any human poet. The generated verses take any desired form, and the
machine floods the inhabitants of the universe with masterpiece after masterpiece, eventually
converting stars and galaxies into forms of poetic work. Ultimately, nobody wants these
masterpieces anymore, nobody wants this synthetic art, but the machine cannot be stopped. The
disastrous works of this electronic poet were eventually curtailed not by turning the machine off
but by hauling it to a dark corner of the universe where its products cannot be seen or heard by
anyone.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 4

And of course:

The following month Trurl received a bill for the electricity consumed by the machine and
almost fell off his chair

Ole@olepetter· Jul 4

Stanislaw Lem on reactions to AI art (made by "Trurl's electronic bard"), sci-fi written in 1965:

There were many poet protests staged, demonstrations, demands that the machine be served
an injunction to cease and desist. But no one else appeared to care. In fact, magazine editors
generally approved: Trurl's electronic bard, writing under several thousand different pseudonyms
at once, had a poem for every occasion, to fit whatever length might be required, and of such
high quality that the magazine would be torn from hand to hand by eager readers. On the street
one could see enraptured faces, bemused smiles, sometimes even hear a quiet sob. Everyone
knew the poems of Trurl's electronic bard, the air rang with its delightful rhymes. Not
infrequently, those citizens of a greater sensitivity, struck by a particularly marvelous metaphor
or assonance, would actually fall into a faint. But this colossus of inspiration was prepared even
for that eventuality; it would immediately supply the necessary number of restorative rondelets.
Trurl himself had no little trouble in connection with his invention. The classicists, generally
elderly, were fairly harmless; they confined themselves to throwing stones through his windows
and smearing the sides of his house with an unmentionable substance. But it was much worse
with the younger poets. One, for example, as powerful in body as his verse was in imagery, beat
Trurl to a pulp. And while the constructor lay in the hospital, events marched on. Not a day
passed without a suicide or a funeral; picket lines formed around the hospital; one could hear
gunfire in the distance —instead of manuscripts in their suitcases, more and more poets were
bringing rifles to defeat Trurl's electronic bard.

Ole@olepetter· Jul 3

The New City

In one motion, as if to not draw too much attention
to my loneliness, the server swiftly clears the extra plate setting
& leaves, in its place, a single menu. I’m not from here, I confess
to absolve my solitude from the seat it occupies,
to suggest also, regardless if it’s true, that somewhere else
there would be someone else, but here it’s just a book
I use to hide between bites, in which the protagonist discovers
you can spend your whole life in a little blue suit
& still be wrong about what the world sees
when it looks at you. By the time I finish my meal,
the office buildings have all emptied into the pubs
around downtown. Sometimes I look up from my life & discover
the world, undeterred by my hiding, has found me.
The lawyers chain smoke on the patio. In a corner booth
the day nurses suck helium from pink balloons.
Someone is sitting alone at a high-top in a pencil skirt.
Someone is making their way through the bar,
coat tucked under an arm, a drink in each hand.

— Hieu Minh Nguyen

Ole@olepetter· Jul 3

Scary! But the plot at the end is a bit sus. Why is the EPS relative to trend (which is what I assume they're plotting) in a 100 year uptrend?

Ole@olepetter· Jul 2

Portrait of a Lady on Fire is such a beautiful movie

Ole@olepetter· Jul 2

July

Temperature in the upper seventies, a bit of a breeze. Great
cumulus clouds pass slowly through the summer sky like
parade floats. And the slender grasses gather round you,
pressing forward, with exaggerated deference, whispering,
eager to catch a glimpse. It's your party after all. And it couldn't
be more perfect. Yet there's a nagging thought: you don't really
deserve all this attention, and that come October, there will be
a price to pay.

— Louis Jenkins

Ole@olepetter· Jul 1

En annen og trolig bedre forklaring på manglende oppmerksomhet om disse fremtidige avgiftsøkningene, er at de rett og slett ikke kommer til å inntreffe.

Appetitten blant velgere for å punge ut for klimaet ser ut til å være sterkt nedadgående.

Etter USAs fadese i Hormuzstredet måtte ikke norske bilister bale med høye drivstoffpriser lenge før Stortinget grep inn og satte en midlertidig strek over hele veibruksavgiften.

Avgiften skal opp igjen 1. september, men landets største parti, Frp, har argumentert for at avgiftsfritaket burde vært forlenget ut året. Å se for seg en borgerlig regjering som gir næringslivet CO2-sjokk i 2030, er ikke helt enkelt.

Spesielt ikke når andre rike land ikke legger opp til den samme nasjonale selvpiskingen.

Ole@olepetter· Jun 30

Midnight to Eight

Midnight to eight I spend with machines,
with their incessant hum, the hubbub and scrape,
the snip-snip, the whine of well-oiled tongues
that winds through the night. I listen to lathes
go round, to mills that peck at each part-piece
like hungry birds, to grinders whose bit-sized
teeth make ultra-fine dust, golden iotas
drawn toward heaven by the drone of a fan.

I nod to this music and think of you
on a steep hill overlooking Morgantown
where you dream all night in your factory
of sleep, creating from each sweet breath
a new instant. Breathing in, breathing out,
working all night, making each now right.

— David Salner

Ole@olepetter· Jun 29

Jeg har et lite prosjekt med å systematisk lese alt av dikt jeg har samlet på harddisken over årene, og jeg finner så mye bra. Her et kongruent med tråden din:

War Some of the Time

when you write a poem it
needn't be intense
it
can be nice and
easy
and you shouldn't necessarily
be
concerned only with things like anger or
love or need;
at any moment the
greatest accomplishment might be to simply
get
up and tap the handle
on that leaking toilet;
I've
done that twice now while typing
this
and now the toilet is
quiet.
to
solve simple problems: that's
the most
satisfying thing, it
gives you a chance and it
gives everything else a chance
too.

we were made to accomplish the easy
things
and made to live through the things
hard.

— Charles Bukowski

Ole@olepetter· Jun 28

House on a Cliff

Indoors the tang of a tiny oil lamp. Outdoors
The winking signal on the waste of sea.
Indoors the sound of the wind. Outdoors the wind.
Indoors the locked heart and the lost key.

Outdoors the chill, the void, the siren. Indoors
The strong man pained to find his red blood cools,
While the blind clock grows louder, faster. Outdoors
The silent moon, the garrulous tides she rules.

Indoors ancestral curse-cum-blessing. Outdoors
The empty bowl of heaven, the empty deep.
Indoors a purposeful man who talks at cross
Purposes, to himself, in a broken sleep.

— Louis MacNeice

Ole@olepetter· Jun 26

Love Poem

When you fall in love,
you jockey your horse
into the flaming barn.

You hire a cabin
on the shiny Titanic.
You tease the black bear.

Reading the Monitor,
you scan the obituaries
looking for your name.

— Donald Hall

Ole@olepetter· Jun 26

I'll never tire of scrolling /r/malelivingspace