Living without knowing

Living without knowing Henrik Nor-Hansen by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book

This is the second book from our stay in Alaska. Please view in fullscreen.

This place of love and darkness by Henrik Nor-Hansen | Make Your Own Book


This book is from our winter in Alaska. (It's not possible to leaf through it on iPad)

Lakeshore Loop

I kept coming back to this neighborhood in Wasilla, Alaska. Although it wasn't really a neighbor- hood. Not yet.

I've always been slightly afraid of old houses. I guess an old house is somewhat associated with the deceased.

But this was different. It was as if I felt uneasy about the future, and everything that will take place in the years to come.

What kind of people will be living here? How many kids will grow up, and what kind of people will they become? What will their memories be?

Death and Desire

Photography has been associated with death by Roland Barthes; we look into the past when we look at photographs. These trivial photos will lie around for decades, long after we're gone.

Our lives are about action and movements. But a photograph can stop a fork that's on its way to the mouth: the fork will stay like that forever.

But we're not at ease with having our moments slipping into eternity. I realize this every time I try to photograph people. I guess we all just want to look good. Even though we're rotting in our graves we want to look good.

I'm thinking about this as I'm driving slowly and hungry through the dark. Photographs may be creepy, but I'm aware that most people would consider me creepy as well.

The creepiness of a photographer lies in his eyes; he's watching without taking part. He's both restless and persistent. He's full of unknown desire.

And I have no idea what I desire as I drive through these silent streets. Being this far north the gardens are desolated and barren, but shouldn't there be tracks in the snow? Shouldn't there be kids playing? Then I realize that a lot of the houses are empty. No curtains, no nothing.

I'm driving down Fairview Loop. I still can't see any people. The whole neighborhood appears eerily lifeless.




I pull into an empty street and stop the car in front of a big house. The Christmas decoration has been blown out of all proportions. It's hard not to think that all these lights must be compensating for something.

Roaming

I'm roaming in the dark. I'm just driving. I'll get lost but I'm alone and it doesn't matter. I never really blame myself for anything.

It's the second night I'm out. I'll get antsy and say that I'll go for a drive. I'm better off in a car when I'm anxious.

Not dark yet

We're on our way to get a turkey for Thanksgiving. I suggest waiting until Thanksgiving, but now Nina has the turkey on her mind and it won't let go. Besides, it's not dark yet.

Then she declares she has to buy Christmas cards. I suggest waiting. Instead I get the shopping list with turkey and gravy and whatnot.

I also get the bright red shopping bag. Don't get me wrong: plastic bags should be banned world wide. Those bags wreaks havoc in the sea.

But as I walk towards the store I'm thinking the red shopping bag doesn't feel right. Quite frankly; it feels a bit gay.* A shopping bag of cotton may be fine in California, but this is Alaska.

I get the turkey and the rest and get in line. The cashier is good-looking but I'm about to jeopardize my manhood. I guess I'll just have to brave it out.

* I'm all for gay rights, gay marriage, etc.

In the Ditch

It's early Sunday morning. My face is stiff and strangely hot. I rub the cold gloves hard over my face.

But I can't help noticing the number of cars that have ended up in the ditch. Even on the short trip I'm taking.

There's an elderly couple who has plunged straight into the snow for no apparent reason. I watch as a trooper enters the scene. The couple just sit put. They won't budge. It's like they can't believe this is happening to them.

Then there's a brown pickup close to Knik Bar. I think we passed that one yesterday. He's probably still sleeping it off.

Soon after I pass a red sedan that seemed to have taken a spin. I walk back with my camera and start taking pictures.

I feel slightly uncomfortable when a dark van slows down behind me. Is it offending to take pictures of a ditched car? Maybe. I'm not sure.

There're two men in the front seat. A dog is barking in the back of the van and I hear someone shouting shut the fuck up. So they are three, I gather.
- Is it your car? I ask.
- It's my wife's car.
- Is she okay?
We pause for a moment. My concern may have sounded a bit false. I also realize that his eyes keeps shifting down to my camera.
- Who want's to know?
- I just passed the car.
- Are you from Germany?
- No.
- She's fine. She dodged a moose and got ditched instead.
- The Saturday night moose?
- Whatever.

Suffering, or just snow

I'm walking the dog when it starts to snow. The wind picks up and heavy snow is making it hard to see. Everything changes. People are lurking forward, their faces turned away from the wind.

What I like about heavy weather is the way it breaks down barriers. Strangers talk to each other. You may suffer, but it's easy to see the suffering in others too.

A special feat about Alaska is the way many people dress. They seem to prolong the summer by holding on to shorts and flip-flops. They may have heated cars in heated garages, but even so.

People with kids are also an interesting theme. They seem to suffer the most. I guess the snow comes on top on everything else.

The latecomers

"We got this place between Palmer and Wasilla because it was cheap. There's no work and my wife hates it here. The kids are still young. They don't know anything else. Anyways, the con- struction has started. I'll guess we just have to see how it goes."

Burned house

He slowed down the car to a crawl. This was the house where he grew up in Wasilla. His parents stayed on to the end, but he eventually lost contact with them.

He kept talking while driving. His childhood seemed strangely distant, as if without any real emotional impact. "Then there was a fire. God knows what happened."

First snow, Wasilla

It's still dark when I leave the house. I brush off a thin layer of snow and sit down in the painfully cold car.

I can taste the reflux of acid as I drive the empty streets through Wasilla. This is way too early for me. But it's the first snow of the season and it had gotten into my head that I wanted to see what the Alaskans were up to.

I drive into an empty Shell station. It's Sunday, and I sit for a while and just watch. Everything is silence and neon.

I follow a couple of cars that eventually ends up in front of an enormous bowling hall. It's like a hangar. I suddenly find everything perplexing. The parking lot alone is absolutely enormous.

I turn the engine off and sits quietly in the car. I'm really trying to contemplate why anybody would want to go bowling at 9 am on a Sunday morning. It just doesn't make sense.

I'm about to pull out of the parking lot when I notice a high-heeled woman who leans conspicuously into a car. It's not a prostitute, I gather, not 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning and certainly not in a small town like Wasilla. But now she's got my attention and I'm lingering in the parking lot to see in which direction this is heading.

Then I slowly start to feel old and ridiculous. I reason with myself, and quickly butt out of the place.

Hangover

I decided to take a walk to clear my head. There's a path that leads deep into the forest. I was okay for awhile, but then felt more nervous. I suddenly started to think about the devil.

I really don't believe in the existence of any kind of manifested evil. Still, what's nonexistent has a major part in anxiety. It might even be the main ingredient.

So I thought a lot about the devil and met this black dog, with his head enclouded in heavy breat- hing. This may be the place to mention that I'm more of a cat person.