self, in oz, 2005, non-academic silly hat

I did a little genealogy research some time ago, and found a distant ancestor named Tore Tinghatt. He apparently acquired the name by turning up at an assembly (Thing) with something peculiar on his head. Challenge accepted.

Right now I am off-line at 30.000 feet, en-route to Australia again, to acquire a silly hat. It will take a while, but if all goes to plan, I will post-grad from RMIT with a few years of research on information architecture and four dimensions, some aussie wine under my vest and a silly hat on my head.

Wish me luck.

And we got two very pregnant cats in from the cold.

Snip your cats, people. They, or their offspring will die painful deaths in these temperatures.

I took one of the mothers-to-be into my flat. She is a tortoiseshell, and without the enormous belly, she would have been a petit miss.

We know nothing about her. How old she is, if she has had kittens before. What she has been eating, where she has lived. What deseases or injuries she may have. At the bursting-point of pregnancy, is not the time to transport, stress, poke, medicate or hassle a homeless cat. She will have her kittens, then we shall see. So I figured I had to build trust and get to know her fast. I belong to the school of thinking – let animals be left in peace, and when they are ready, they will come to you. No time for that here.

I could feel the kittens kick, roll and do somersault in her belly. She was remarkably friendly, considering she was homeless and had been for some time. She wanted to be petted, but seemed unfamiliar with the idea of sitting on a human lap. I let her snake around my feet, I would get down on the floor and she would head-butt and scent-mark me.

She acted more and more pregnant. She snored, she fell asleep in the middle of something, she farted, burped, ate like a docker and after a few days began to make strange little noises of presumably discomfort. She would growl oddly, rest for hours, stagger around the flat on four stilts, overloaded with a bulging, pendulous belly full of little terrors. They would wake her up when she slept. I could watch the alien-like multiple movements in her belly, and I could see them waking up their long-suffering mum. She would whimper in her sleep, and wake with a jolt.

I have never been present at any kind of mammal birth, so I scoured the internet and read the same patently obvious advice over and over. Cats usually manage fine on their own, do not meddle, observe. The thing is, I suspect some of the advice is pointless or invalid when you deal with a homeless cat you do not know, and that does not know you. You have no medical history, no history, you have no bond, you do not know how she will react to things, or if she is afraid or agressive towards various things and objects. I made her a nesting box, turned up the heat in the flat, and packed a maternity bag with all sorts of sterile doodads.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then the night before valentines, I noticed she altered behaviour slightly. Then she tried to dig underneath my duvet, and within three minutes, contractions started. She wanted to give birth in my bed but I was not so keen on that, so I managed to gently convince her otherwise, but she wanted to lie as close to me as possible. Two golden kittens popped out in quick succession, and mum had all under control. Then a black one partly appeared, she was getting really tired, so we pulled him/her out. Then number four a good while later, she pushed out and just lay there. The poor kitten in its little sack, with placenta and umbilical cord still attached.

I tied the umbilical cord, cut it and removed the placenta. Mum had dutifully eaten the previous ones, but she just seemed exhausted, and made no effort to clean the wee thing, so we did. After a little cajoling, she began licking him.

Mum had a little break, ate a little, and seemed to get a little more comfortable and regain some strenght.

My co-midwife went home, and as she was out the door, kitten number five effortlessly popped out, another little golden treasure, two hours after the previous. Mum was back on track, and did the placenta & umbilical cord business, but then ignored the wee thing, wet, slimy and brand new.

I put him under her nose, nature resumed, and she licked him clean and dry. The thing is, I read every daft article on the internet about kittening, but what they all seem to fail informing about is how long one particular thing could or should last. For example, they say “..if a kitten is stuck…”, but what does that mean? how long is it ok for a kitten to be half-way out, or how long for a kitten to stay in the sack, connected to the placenta? I have no idea.

Anyway. At six in the morning I decided I needed some sleep and the family needed some rest and quality time. One little golden creature kept screaming though, and I just wanted him to find a nipple. I found one for him, and tried to nudge him towards it. He started going after my fingers instead… daft little thing!

I had a fag, a pee, some water, and when I came back all was quiet. Good or bad sign? If I  started to fiddle around in her pile of kittens, fur and nipples, I would have upset more than I fixed. I decided to put my faith in good-man Darwin, and I went to bed.

Next morning, the shelter vet called me as I had requested, and on two hours sleep, I went to see if we had five..or four kittens. I was relieved to find five little adorable terrors hassling their mum.

Every time I walk into the nursery (kittenry?) to sit quietly to watch, she takes the opportunity to get out of the box to eat, leaving me between her and the pile of live fur. Her litter crawls around, squealing for her, and she eats and eats and eats…  here she is, a homeless cat, she has been for a good while, trusting me with her kittens.

One cool cat.

For the record:
Chilli, Safran, Mango, Marmelade, Kanel.
(Chili, Saffron, Mango, Marmalade, Cinnamon)
13.02.12: 23:39 orange
13.02.12: 23:47 orange and white
14.02.12: 00:50 black
14.02.12: 02:00 orange
14.02.12: 03:47 orange

I finished my bachelor in Digital Media Production at the University College Østfold, and in october 2010 recieved an email from a lecturer asking if they could buy some of my photos for their new IT-student website. I said yes, and heard nothing more.

Two months later I discovered that they had taken 13 of my photos and published on their new site without permission, credits, payment or informing me. I was not impressed. I emailed a handful of people I knew would have been involved, including the webmaster, the dean and the Chief Information Officer and asked what was going on, and asked them to remove the photos until we had come to an agreement.

No answer.

I send another email, a tad more formal, outlining that Norwegian intellectual property law had been broken, what the common practice is in cases like this, but that I would like this solved in a manner that both parts could accept. But that this is not possible without communication. Basically: talk to me.

Silence. They remove the photos from the site, bar one.

I send a letter snailmail, repeating what was in the email, and added that I would send an invoice, but I hoped that this could be solved in a friendly manner. In addition, I also said that when an agreement had been reached, they would be allowed to use 10 out of the 13 photos. The remaining three I would never have allowed them to use in any case. I also point out that it is their responsibility to get permission from the people in the photographs. You know, that is another law…

Deafening silence.

A few weeks later, I talk to them. He said he would email me an offer.

I hear nothing. I send an email reminder.

Silence.

In March I receive an email asking me about something else, some files I had worked on while studying. I take the opportunity to remind them again.

Silence.

In august I send an email saying that since I have heard nothing, I assume they would accept an invoice on what is current practice. That would set them back about USD 13.000.

No reply.

Being abroad for most of the summer, I return, and in december, with a heavy heart send them an invoice. They do not want to talk to me, I do not have any options left. If I am stuck in a corner, but I did not put myself there. According to normal practice, I should have invoiced the price of a photo times three: once for the image, once for lack of credits, once for lack of an agreement. Normal freelance price for a photo is estimated to about NOK 2000. That would have brought the total up to approximately NOK 78 000 (about USD 13.000).

I snailmailed an invoice of NOK1000x2 pr. image. 1000 kroner pr image, 1000 kroner pr image for lack of credit and agreement. This is cheap. This is getting off easy. Bear in mind they will be allowed to use ten of the images. This is, essentially, normal price for a photo.

Finally, a reaction. A phonecall. He offered me NOK 3000 for the lot as “compensation for a misunderstanding”. 230 kroner pr image. USD 38. An offence. I insist he sends that “offer” in an email. He is very reluctant to do so. He gives me time to “think about it”. He calls back a few days later, I and tell him that this is not acceptable, and that I have to consider where I will take this further. I am so angry I am shaking, but I speak slowly and calmly.

He calls back, and tells me he has talked to the university college solicitor. He repeatedly refuses to tell me what the solicitor said, but now the offer is NOK 1000 (approx. USD167) pr image. I am asked to “meet them half way”. The gall. I could have invoiced USD 13.000. I should have done that! He does not want to give me the name and contact information to the solicitor as he “does not want to bother him with this”. Finally I get the name and number of the solicitor, his rationale that me calling the solicitor could not possibly take more than ten minutes. I have no guarantee or faith in that this guy has given the solicitor the whole picture. Or that they have talked at all.

He does not want to send me this new offer in an email. I insist. He refuses, on the grounds that “he does not have the time right now”. I say he can write it as we speak, I helpfully suggest: “we offer you 1000kr pr image. Best regards, signed Mr. Weasel”. He would have had time to do that in the time it took me to argue this point. No, he does not have the time. It is friday. It is half past four.

Again, I am given time to think, and he says with a sternly, fatherly chastising tone, that “we should get this thing done with”. I have tried to get this over with for over a year! They have had a year to give me an offer and start communicating. And now I am given the impression that this is my fault. He also starts the argument that “you are not really a photographer“, and that “the images was not really on the internet for a long time“. They were only removed because I found them – through Google! 

He thinks the price is steep. It is not. It is really really really cheap for breaking the law. And if the total is large, that is due to the fact that they took 13 images. Not my doing.

Remember that one picture they did not remove? They say it was a photo taken by a lecturer. I said in that case we are not talking about the same photo. As it is a photo OF THE GUY who (they say) claims it to be his photo!

So. Where did I go from there? I had three options. Solicitor, media or the settlement office, the lowest rung on the legal ladder, where the aim is to reach agreements. I researched all three.

What they failed to see is that I could not let this go for a number of reasons.

• they have offended me personally by refusing to communicate, not taking my letters and emails seriously, and by extension, offended anyone trying to communicate with them, including the students past and present.
• They never offered and apology. The closes thing was an oral admission that “I see that we have not handled this very well“. My diagnosis is that they have not “handled” anything at all.
•  They tried to weasel away by calling it a “oral misunderstanding“, and when I produced the email with the initial request, that certainly upped the stakes.
• They tried to intimidate me by saying they had talked to a solicitor but refused to say what the solicitor said, and then tried to refuse me the contact information to said solicitor.
• They tried to belittle my work, the value, the experience and the product of years of practice by saying “you are not really a photographer“. Well. By the same token: you guys are not really educators.
• They tried to blame me: I was being unreasonable, I had misunderstood, my tiny little head could clearly not grasp this.
• They said it was merely an “internal communication error”. But did nothing to rectify it.
• They tried to weasel out of giving anything in written form, and generally just postponing, stretching time, “forgetting”, and the ever lovely “I have been very busy“-excuse. Seriously. I studied there for three years. I know how “busy” they are. And they had a YEAR.
• It is also an offence to every photographer out there. It is incredibly unprofessional, and the most depressing thing is that this is not unique.
• it IS a violation of the law of intellectual property. You know. Illegal.

 But most of all:

this is the IT-department in an educational institution that teaches their students about intellectual property law. They demand their students do their research and reference according to standards, and do not steal or plagiarise. I did my Digital Media Production bachelor there, but they obviously have no respect for the bachelor programme they created themselves, and the work resulting from it. Such as photographs. And somehow, the Norwegian law does not apply to them.

It makes me so furious I can hardly speak. And I am seldom lost for words.

They get away with this, I am sure, because most students are young and inexperienced. So I guess they are living in a tiny provincial bubble, where they can put on the “fatherly chastising”-tone, and kids will buckle. And you can buy young country-bumpkin students off with trinkets and shiny beads. You do not need the law then. They tried every trick in the book; pleading, accusing, blaming, intimidation, belittling. The thing is: I know these people. And they should know me, by now. Still: little cheap theatrics.

This whole thing has made me sick, my stomach turns every time I think about it. I am also angry at myself for not invoicing the full price. I am angry at myself for trying to be accommodating. I do want them named and shamed, and I want to warn current and future students about this himalayan incompetence, cheekyness and outright illegal behaviour.

I finally send an email saying I have nothing more to say, and that they will hear from my solicitor.

They decided to cough up.

Eirik Solheim, an editor with the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation had pretty much the same thing happening to him, and he writes the story in this blog post “They stole an image of my son and just had to pay $4000“. The observant reader will see his point that the whole thing could have been averted had the violators promptly apologised and suggested reasonable compensation.

This whole thing could by and large have been solved a year ago, if, instead of burying their heads in the sand thinking it would go away and then subsequently trying to blame me, offend me, accuse me, intimidate me. A year ago, if they had given a sincere apology and a decent offer, this would never have happened.

It does not feel like a victory, I feel trampled on, misused. When the method of ignoring all my attempts at communication failed, they tried all the manipulative methods in the book. I have little interest in law, I believe in consensus, communication. But push a rat into a corner and see what gives.

I deeply regret that I tried to be accommodating. I should have invoiced the USD 13.000. I should have called a solicitor months ago.

Let this be a warning to anyone finding themselves in a similar situation. Please spread this story, as a warning and as an information about property laws.

Will they use the ten pictures they are allowed to? I doubt it. If they do, will they get permission from the people in the pictures, and will they credit me? I doubt it.

Then we shall see.

Anthropomorphism

It is human to see human responses around us, and we have the ability for abstraction. So we apply human patterns to animals and objects. “An evil wind blows..”

Computers are “thinking”, when that little spinny beachball or hourglass pops up. I assure you, computers do not think, they compute. And crash. And they do not have malicious thoughts by themselves, try to trip you up or attempts to confuse you originating from any inherited intelligence. It may seem that way at times though; “it is doing it again” is a classic line often heard on computer support. It insinuates that the machinery have a mind of its own, and therefore the user does not have any influence, responsibility or impact. This is what supportpeople call pebkac. Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair.

Most people would not see human traits in a cockroach, say, a frog or a shark. But we all do it, particularly to big-eyed, furry mammals. Large heads, big eyes and mammarian glands seems to be a prerequisite. Of course, primates tops the list. It seems we have to see our abilities in them to have empathy. It has been argued for many years that for example fish does not feel. A preposterous argument based on no evidence whatsoever. Just a convenient conclusion.

Sometimes the interpretation can be correct, but do not take it for granted. Sometimes it is wishful thinking. Let snoozing lion lie.

People read expressions in animals and get very very surprised when the animal does not react accordingly or do not understand that we are “the good guys”. There have been incidents where seemingly happy and domesticated animals have killed or mauled their owners. To much surprise, “Buster was such a happy, caring tiger”. Right.

This is the – at times – very misguided idea that animals understands us, and we them. The obvious examples would of course be people like TImothy Treadwell that lived with grizzly bears, played with their cubs, and argued that he “communicated” with them and protected them. Until they ate him. A Darwin Award for eco-warrior Mr. Treadwell. And various people who have kept wild animals, believe to have them under control, and then being killed by them. It is not because the cat is malicious. It is because we interpret the behavioural patterns as similar to ours.

Dressing up animals in human clothes we remove their species identity and apply our own. It is fun in myths and stories, and can work as metaphors, but it is not doing us or their species any favours.

Cats and dogs, in particular, of course, as they have been domesticated for many many years are usually victims of this. We “know” each other. And we give them  toys in multiple colours looking like human-baby toys. Many animals have poor colour vision, so this is not for their benefit, but for ours. It is cute. Funnily, animals often are in that respect like human children: often they prefer to play with the box the gift came in, an old sock, a post-it or a twig. Any old rubbish lying around, and the expensive “pet furniture” stands untouched.

I am not opposed to pet toys or brightly coloured things. But I am opposed to humans  applying our wishes and preferences on animals. Such as giving a cat a nightlight. I mean, really. Cats are predators, they hunt at night, their night vision and sense of smell and hearing leaves us in the dust. In fact, studies shows that cats see better at night than in daylight. Which means, that for the cats sake, turn the light off.

For thousands of years, we kept cats to get rid of vermin. They had a job, to catch mice. Still there are famous mousers in the distilleries in Scotland that do a very important job. I love whisky, and I do not want any mouse poo in my barley, thankyou. I do not think those cats are cuddled much. I do not think they lie in front of a fire or on a lap (I have met a couple). Yet I do believe they are taken good care of (good mousers being hard to find), and I believe they have fine lives. A cat does not, from some mythical primordial state, natively belong in a human lap.

Now, cats are pets, and the catching of mice is a nuisance. Our expectations of cats have changed. Over time, the cats with less ability to drag headless rodents home and dump them on the carpet might be the ones that win out. Certainly, cats that get along with humans, fulfil our expectations and wishes, will have better lives and better chances of survival and possibly reproduction. There is no such thing as the primeval original, when there is constant adaptation. A good life for a cat does not mean spoonfeeding or a loopy lady calling herself “mammy”, nattering on with babytalk. Just because they have soft fur, does not mean they appreciate or need being petted all day long.

Our expectations of animals determine their quality of life and chances of survival. As these expectations change over time, so the animals will try to adapt as well as they can. Humans should not underestimate species other than our own, nor try to make them more like us. After all. A lot of us are not really all that nice.

I worked briefly at the National Archives as an apprentice bookbinder yonder, and I remember the genealogists that came trundling up the path from the metro every day, carrying heavy bags of notes. They would request church registres, dusty tomes, old newspapers and microfilm from the six floors below ground. A systematic, gargantuan, taxonomic task. I always thought I would never bother with it, because: back then you needed serious discipline and a keen sense of priority. You would only have a few sources of information available at one time, and flitting to and fro by fancy was not a good idea. Enter scene: the internet!

I started out with the names of my great grandmother, for the simple reason that they are unusual, and therefore easy to follow. The first name, Schjoldager, goes to Trondheim, and I find a small street there named after my great-great-great-grandfather or so. I thought that was rather swell, actually. He was a chimney- and chimney sweeper-inspector. Trondheim burned several times, so I guess this was a reasonably important job. At least not one they would give to the town drunk. Then Schjoldager morphs into Wolner/Wølner, and goes to about 1590, to Jacob Wølner who came to Norway from Freiberg, Germany to work as Overstiger at Kongsberg Silver Mines. Schjoldager stops there – or at least, I have not tried to find the rest of the Wølmers of Freiberg.

So, back to great grand-mamas second name, Figenschou. It goes to northern Norway, then to Bergen. There, a fellow by the name Elias Fiigenschow (b. ab. 1599, in Copenhagen), was apparently one of the best portrait painters in the country. His grandfather, Mathias Fugenshuh (1540) was a royal saddlemaker from Hindelang, Germany, and he had a coat of arms. I was chuffed. Hurrah, I thought. A proper, swirly family crest complete with animals, acantus and shields.

Elias married a Bloch, and to make a long story short, she hails from the old Norwegian noble families. Apart from having hilarious names such as Benkestokk, Smør (Butter), Smørhatt (Butterhat), Krukow, Bratt til Tomb, Ku til Tomb, Stangjarfylja, the crowning beauty is a governor on Iceland, Tore Bjørnsson Tinghatt (Tinghatt = thing (as in assembly) & hat). The source considers that the name Þinghottr may be because he “came to a thing (assembly) wearing a peculiar hat“. This strikes me as wild speculation, but hey – I love the thought, so I am sticking with the story:

Some time in the early 1200, one of my ancestors came to the assembly meeting wearing something amusing on his head. 

From another path of the Figenschou line, I find the unassuming name Hage. The line goes to Danefær, to not-so-unassuming Holstein, to von Reventlow, to Rantzau, Buchwald, Breide, and further to the positively pompous von Ahlefeldt, Limbek, Gyllenstierne, von Rugen. This may not say very much, but they are all nobility, knights, members of Council of the Realm. Wherever that may be. I was at this point swimming in more crests and coat of arms than I cared to, and it was clearly steering towards Scandinavian royalty. And if you get mixed into that, there is no way out. To cut a very very long story very short, I end up at various kings and queens of Sweden, Denmark; princesses from England, Poland, Italy and Russia. Some saints too. This is around year 1000, and if things are a little shady after the black death, it certainly gets foggy around 1000.

Of course, genealogy is not an exact science, and I am no professional. I am good at digging around on the internet though. Of course I may have gotten something wrong, but I would be in good company, among those hobby genealogists that came to the National Archives. I have tried to find at least two sources and confirmation of the lines, particularly the high royalty. They often had multiple wives, husbands, children out of wedlock left right and centre. The men might die early in war, the women in childbirth. I am learning much about “NN”, and the politics of marrying off your daughters for political reasons. And after all, we are all related, more or less. At least in Scandinavia it was not uncommon to send a child to a neighbouring lord or a relative to be brought up there. This was to ensure connections and peace, but it might also leave the origin of the child uncertain. At some point in history, the idea of “parent” may be biological, or may be whoever raised the child. See the confusion?

From Figenschou, I find three distinct lines that I have not followed through. One point to the old kings of Norway, and the two others both point to Charlemagne. I mean, what do you do then? Behind him is the Byzantine empire.

Once you have hitched your family tree to a royal line, there is little point in following it through: others have done that. The royal connections are amusing, but I do not feel any relation to them. My initial interest was to find amusing anecdotes such as the guy with the peculiar headgear, and the guy that “in a fit of anger did away with himself with a rope” (Johan Reinertsen Wormhuus, 1686, Bergen).

I have three more family lines to look at. They will not be so easy, but they might have good stories. And yes, I made a family tree. A work in progress.

Someone mailed the shelter, asking them to take a kitty back or have it put down, as it was catching mice.

A large portions of people suddenly develops allergies, particularly around holidays.

One guy had a kitty with a smashed paw around for six days, before calling. And then the reason for him calling was not the missing paw, but that the landlord would not let him have the cat anymore. He insisted the wee thing was fine. He said it was not his cat, but then in another sentence said he mentioned they thought he was a she when they got him. Just one of several contradictions. The poor thing came in with the untreated mangled paw, stinking, black and decaying flesh hanging in strips, and bone sticking out. Yea, he was fine.

I wish these people could at least lie a little more convincingly. It would prevent me from hating mankind. If the guy had kept the story simple, he could have been a hero, instead I now want to defecate in his mailbox. He could have just said he had found this poor thing outside, and thought of the shelter. End of story. He would have been a saviour. Now, he is the model of a disgusting human being.

Someone left their house for over four months. Just poured cat food over the floor and left. A caretaker or plumber found the cats. They had been drinking out of the loo, and there was cat poo everywhere. One of the cats darted out the door as helpers came in, and have not been seen since. One male, a mere kitten when abandoned, was scared and shy for a few days, and then turned out to be the most loveable creature.

A box with two rabbits was found in the parking garage of the local shopping centre. Another in a cardboard box among rubbish at a motorway rest stop. A kitten thrown out of the window of a car. Some people apparently throw kittens through the gate of the shelter. Which is at least not directly cruel, and has a mildly comical side, as there is no actual fence. Just forest. Try to shepherd cats.

see the homeless ones.

Kurt Vonnegut

A carpenter was commissioned to build some boxes for a SPCA cat shelter. This is what he did. He did not even bother to pretend to do a half decent job.

This guy have a three-year apprenticeship, cutting pieces of wood, using a drill, sandpaper and a saw. Screws juts out on the inside of the cages, the doors do not close. Distressed animals will injure themselves on these. I could have done a better job! It would have taken me ages, but I would have done a better job.

I was a teaching assistant at the university college, and one of my students came whining one day, that he had to read. That there was books with words in them. That he was expected to read. He actually said, and I quote, “I canna do it! I try! I open the first page and there are all these words!”

I smiled sweetly and said, “well maybe you should do something else. Maybe you should become a bus driver or a carpenter instead”. He was deeply offended, his classmates rekindled their hatred of me.

I regret that comment now. It turns out you can be as incompetent as a carpenter, as you could be unfit for anything vaguely academic, such as reading. The difference between rubbish carpentry and shoddy academic work is depressingly obvious. A bad house will fall down. A bad thesis will have no impact on anything. You can set fire to both, though, and you probably should.

Art can be made out of any old rubbish. Craft cannot. If you are not in fine art, you are in craft, and there is a quality gauge. If you cannot sign your work with excellence, at least do not inflict injury on homeless kittys.

After the second world war, the law was changed for the legal purges in Norway, so as to execute Quislings, the Nazi sympathisers. Technically, Norway had the death penalty for high treason until 1979, but the last execution was in 1948.

Obviously, there will be no death penalty for Behring Breivik, and because of a police computer-system cock-up, he cannot be sentenced to 31 years, the upcoming limit for “acts of terrorism”. So the maximum ordinary sentence he can receive is 21 years, a “life” sentence. Norway do not do that weird thing of multiple life sentences. But he can be sentenced to a complicated melange based on his mental health/capacity, that might keep him locked up for as long as he lives. They then have to prove he is just the right amount of bonkers.

Today, as I write this, he is present at the first public hearing in court, and he introduced himself as a knight and a military commander of the Norwegian resistance. He sees himself as a freedom fighter that had to do terrible things for the common good. So in his mind, he is related to those who was interned at Grini during the war. He fights for freedom against Goliath-odds.

He questioned the judges ability to give him a fair trial, as they are “representatives of multiculturalism”. The guy is obviously deluded, but he is not mad. We should not give him the benefit of the mad lable.

Norway’s justice system, unlike some other countries, are based on the premise that people can change, they can learn, they can repay. Repent and be free. Statistically, this works, as the percentage of re-convictions are low compared to other European countries. So this case is a large problem for the justice system, and for the prevailing sense of justice. Fact is, there are few people in this country that would not like to see him boil and burn.

A friend set up this scenario; if you are out driving, and accidentally hit someone with your car, and then discovered it was Behring Breivik, would your reaction pattern be different? I would say yes. I would think a lot of people would, if not directly celebrate, then at least take their time in calling an ambulance; a sense of guilt greatly diminished. Some people would get back in the car and back up over him again.

We are uncomfortable with these feelings. Other people do terrible things too, and victims of other crimes may suffer just as much, but the sheer scale of this guys actions makes it a very public problem. He has committed atrocities, we want him to suffer. That is the point of prison, that is the point of punishment. We have the justice system so that the punishments do not get out of proportions. We want criminals to see what we see, and we want them to suffer in new-found understanding, then we want them to become clear-eyed, honest, upstanding pillars of society.

But deep down, I do not think we want this for Behring Breivik. Norway will uphold the justice system. And we will all quietly hate it for this one man.

EDIT.

As His Loopyness is unfolding – should I say unravelling – it becomes more clear he has a severe mental illness. Paranoid schizophrenic, they say. Quite possibly. But here is the curious thing: people seem to be outraged by that. Why? They want him punished. They want him in prison, even though a mental hospital would take away more of his freedoms and rights, would control and monitor him closer, would even possibly medicate and cure him, would keep him locked up for longer. Then maybe he will see what we see. If so, who could live with that? How could prison be more punishment?

We have all seen a gorgeous film, A Beautiful Mind. This is the Terrible Mind.

If he is sick, he can be medicated, he can be cured, more or less. That would probably be the greatest punishment of all.

I do not take this site immensely serious, but when I come to think of it, loosing everything would actually be a himalayan annoyance. Really really inconvenient. I have deleted, copied, put in storage, quarantined, exported, scrubbed, scrutinised and bleached.

The residue of black hacks are persistent. And I am uncertain what this one actually accomplishes, apart from a proof of concept. No, I am not furious, it is part of the risk, I just wish I had been a little ahead. It did not seem to last long before my site gave that ugly warning page, and then it does not last long before google blacklists me. Hassle.

Still some little hiccups to fix and some research to do, but the cracks should be well stuffed with oakum and I am sailing on, although cautiously.