up here, incorporating him in the work is no longer just a possibility, it’s a necessity.
Two metres under the ground plus a plinth of half a metre plus two metres of egg shaker plus four metres of Dad plus two metres of me on my bike plus Bongo. We’re talking eleven metres of totem pole here, of which nine are above the ground. I’m in business.
Since this is my first totem pole I’ve no realistic idea how long it will take to carve. To begin with, I reckon it will take a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but as time passes I start extending my estimate and soon realise that it will take all winter and spring. The axes from Maridalen will be my closest companions during this period. I use one of them for rough hacking and the other for the more delicate work. Eventually I suppose I’ll also need some chisels and a file and, doubtless, a not insubstantial amount of sandpaper. Bongo is no help whatsoever in this process. He wanders around me restlessly as I chip away. I try to explain to him that he’s already done his bit. I would never have got this tree to the camp without you, I say. You’re one of the most important players in the game, and it’s not your fault that you’re a moose and can’t use tools. You missed the boat millions of years ago. That happened when some representatives of our common origins broke with one another and went their separate ways. Those who were to be my ancestors went in the direction of the fascinating world of tools and fine motor skills, and those who were to become your ancestors made a different choice. And that was that. In hindsight, you might say that they should have given it more thought, but it wasn’t so easy to know, and in spite of everything, in my opinion, under the circumstances, you moose are doing alright. In my opinion, things have turned out well for you despite the pretty sorry start. But Bongo doesn’t want to know. He finds it boring with me chipping away all day and he wants some attention. He springs up onto the totem pole and leaps down again, careering around in a spectacular, foolhardy manner. And he runs head first at trees trying to break them. Pull yourself together, Bongo, I say. I quite understand that you consider this boring, but I have to honour my father and you have to accept that. You can honour your own father and mother if you want. I won’t stand in your way. But I must warn you against practising the kind of extreme sport of which I’ve seen signs just now. It will all end in tears or maybe something even worse. Have you any idea how many moose come to grief in bogs or fall off steep precipices every year through downright carelessness? You’ve got this one chance, I say. I don’t know what you moose believe in, but I can tell you that if that mother of yours deluded you into imagining there’s a life after death, then you can just forget it. It’s all lies. You are here now and you’ll never be here again. And it’s not cool being dead. Don’t ever forget that.
After three weeks I have carved out the plinth and the egg shaker and they do actually resemble a plinth and an egg. I’m rather proud of myself, even if I say so myself. I’m not the most experienced wielder of an axe in this world, but somehow I’ve still managed. Every evening in the tent I fall asleep from exhaustion, after having had my fill of Bongo’s mother, who is holding up quite well.
Bongo has begun to go for walks on his own. He usually hangs around the camp for the first few hours after breakfast, but then he heads off and seldom returns before nightfall. What he gets up to, I’ve no idea, but I presume it’s the usual moose things and nothing I need worry about. I suppose he has a need to be on his own a little, as indeed I have. I imagine he’s subject to the contradictory forces of the teenage years tearing at his soul, veering from one extreme to the other several times a day: from the soft to the hard, the poetic to the vulgar. And,
Two metres under the ground plus a plinth of half a metre plus two metres of egg shaker plus four metres of Dad plus two metres of me on my bike plus Bongo. We’re talking eleven metres of totem pole here, of which nine are above the ground. I’m in business.
Since this is my first totem pole I’ve no realistic idea how long it will take to carve. To begin with, I reckon it will take a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but as time passes I start extending my estimate and soon realise that it will take all winter and spring. The axes from Maridalen will be my closest companions during this period. I use one of them for rough hacking and the other for the more delicate work. Eventually I suppose I’ll also need some chisels and a file and, doubtless, a not insubstantial amount of sandpaper. Bongo is no help whatsoever in this process. He wanders around me restlessly as I chip away. I try to explain to him that he’s already done his bit. I would never have got this tree to the camp without you, I say. You’re one of the most important players in the game, and it’s not your fault that you’re a moose and can’t use tools. You missed the boat millions of years ago. That happened when some representatives of our common origins broke with one another and went their separate ways. Those who were to be my ancestors went in the direction of the fascinating world of tools and fine motor skills, and those who were to become your ancestors made a different choice. And that was that. In hindsight, you might say that they should have given it more thought, but it wasn’t so easy to know, and in spite of everything, in my opinion, under the circumstances, you moose are doing alright. In my opinion, things have turned out well for you despite the pretty sorry start. But Bongo doesn’t want to know. He finds it boring with me chipping away all day and he wants some attention. He springs up onto the totem pole and leaps down again, careering around in a spectacular, foolhardy manner. And he runs head first at trees trying to break them. Pull yourself together, Bongo, I say. I quite understand that you consider this boring, but I have to honour my father and you have to accept that. You can honour your own father and mother if you want. I won’t stand in your way. But I must warn you against practising the kind of extreme sport of which I’ve seen signs just now. It will all end in tears or maybe something even worse. Have you any idea how many moose come to grief in bogs or fall off steep precipices every year through downright carelessness? You’ve got this one chance, I say. I don’t know what you moose believe in, but I can tell you that if that mother of yours deluded you into imagining there’s a life after death, then you can just forget it. It’s all lies. You are here now and you’ll never be here again. And it’s not cool being dead. Don’t ever forget that.
After three weeks I have carved out the plinth and the egg shaker and they do actually resemble a plinth and an egg. I’m rather proud of myself, even if I say so myself. I’m not the most experienced wielder of an axe in this world, but somehow I’ve still managed. Every evening in the tent I fall asleep from exhaustion, after having had my fill of Bongo’s mother, who is holding up quite well.
Bongo has begun to go for walks on his own. He usually hangs around the camp for the first few hours after breakfast, but then he heads off and seldom returns before nightfall. What he gets up to, I’ve no idea, but I presume it’s the usual moose things and nothing I need worry about. I suppose he has a need to be on his own a little, as indeed I have. I imagine he’s subject to the contradictory forces of the teenage years tearing at his soul, veering from one extreme to the other several times a day: from the soft to the hard, the poetic to the vulgar. And,
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