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FOSSE, Jon



The Boathouse

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I don’t go out anymore, a restlessness has come over me, and I don’t go out. It was this summer that the restlessness came over me. I met Knut again, I hadn’t seen him for at least ten years. Knut and I, we were always together. A restlessness has come over me. I don’t know what it is, but the restlessness aches in my left arm, in my fingers. I don’t go out anymore. I don’t know why, but it is several months since I was last outside the door. It is this restlessness. That is why I have decided to write, I am going to write a novel. I have to do something. This restless- ness is killing me. Perhaps writing will help. It was this summer the restlessness came over me. I met Knut again. He had got married, had two daughters. When we were kids Knut and I were always together. And Knut left. I called his name, but Knut just left. A restlessness has come over me. I looked at his back. I didn’t know what to say, I just saw Knut standing there, down on the road, and then he walked away down the road. I haven’t seen him since. My friend Knut, I hadn’t seen him for at least ten years, and then I saw him again this summer. Knut’s wife. A yellow rain jacket. The denim jacket. Her eyes. Knut is a music teacher, came home for the holidays. I’m more than thirty years old, and I haven’t made anything of my life. I live here, with my mother. It was this summer the restlessness came over me. I’ve never written anything before, not of my own free will, I suppose most people have, written letters, or even poems, but I’ve never written anything. It occurred to me, suddenly, that I might be able to write. I had to do something, the restlessness was too overwhelming. It occurred to me pretty suddenly that perhaps I should start writing, that was after the restlessness had come over me, I had to do something, had to keep the restlessness at bay. I’ve actually never thought about the possibility of writing. Not before this restlessness. It came over me again and again, the restlessness, especially in the evenings, they used to be the best part of the day, but now the evenings are so restless, so entirely restless. I had to find something to do, and so I decided to write. Perhaps writing will help, will keep the restlessness at bay. I don’t know. But this restlessness, which I can’t shake off, perhaps it’ll become more bearable if I write. Perhaps everything will become different. In any case the writing might keep the restlessness at bay for a few hours. I don’t know. Because this restlessness is unbearable, and that is why I’m writing this novel. I sit here. I am alone. I am here. It is this restlessness. I sit in the attic, in my house, and I write. I’m not feeling too bad, it was quite clever of me to think of writing a novel, I think it was, even if I have only just started to write. The restlessness is unbearable, that is why I should write. I sit here in the attic, have two rooms to myself, and I can hear my mother walking around downstairs. Through the floor I can hear the sounds of the television. My life is quite good really. I have my guitar. I have a stereo system, records. I have books. Not all that many books, but I still read a lot, although I mostly get the books I read from the library. I read a lot. I can hear my mother walking around down there. I live with my mother, although I’m more than thirty years old. My mother is not all that old. We get along quite well, really, have lived together all our lives. This summer I met Knut again. When we were kids, Knut and I were always together. I haven’t made much of my life. My mother. She is walking across the floor down there.

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