By Sigge S. Amdal © 2004
Sometimes we all have to face facts. For instance: we are no longer in the stone age. But I think I would have enjoyed it. Living in the stone age, I mean. And don't give me any survival crap or anything, this ain't no romantic disillusion, post-modern romanticism or anything like it. I'm from the North of Norway, for Christ's sake! I can survive in the mountains. Even without hand-rolled tobacco.
I know what cold is, I know what work is, I know what starvation is.
So, why would I like to go to the stone age? I'm short, not muscular by any standards or especially friendly. How would I survive in a pack of savages? In a group of people who thought that stoning the guy with the glasses (I couldn't manage without those) was the greatest entertainment in a frosty evening when the camp fire was dying out and people were eager to keep warm by simple activities? I'll tell you. I'd be the crazy, spiritual guidance of the group. The tribe spokesman in front of the unseen spirits of the forest and the netherworlds. I'd never cut my hair and polish my nails to be claws, just to look cool, and I'd shout in spit and fury the divine messages that tongue of fire and images of dreams had told me. I'd be their one guarantee for success in a dark world of the unintelligible.
In short, I'd kick ass!
Somewhere along the road, when deer and moose were scarce and the new-born members of the group were growing hungry, I'd lead us on a sacred journey to a land where Gods of the Night and Muses of the Day had promised us prosperity, longevity and real, ultimate power (you got to have that). A country where, as they say, the rivers flowed of milk and honey and virgins hid behind every barren oak. It wouldn't be America. I was more thinking somewhere in the Mediterranean. Italy, perhaps.
Anyway, we'd trod along, me in the front with a long staff with a deer's skull on it, perhaps, and whenever someone would fall behind or wanted to go back to our deserted cave I'd break down in spasms, foam and roll my eyes back into my skull, drooling warnings from angered Gods with no names (Gods without names are a lot scarier than Gods with names, because you don't know how to deal with them if you should suddenly meet them. You can't shake hands with a God, and you shouldn't show them the discourtesy of not knowing their name. If you did either, you'd probably be sent somewhere bad!). The ones falling behind would shortly be running afront, I can assure you. Every now and then I'd point out a strange mountain formation, unusual weather condition or even a broken branch, that would all be divine signs that I was leading them in the right direction (straight to Paradise).
After a couple of years – I figure it can't take much longer walking from Norway to Italy – we'd get there, and the group's members would recognize me as their guarantee of real, ultimate power in this glorious land that I had given them. I would never lead the pack per se, but neither the previous nor the present leader would dare to speak against the Gods. If he did, we were all sure to die in horrible pain, and nobody wants to do that. Since I did neither hunting or hard, manual labour, I would live longer than the average male in the group, and the youngsters from the Old Country, now grown up, would tell their children about how I'd led them from the freezing mountains of the North to this, our land, thus ensuring me a steady, protected and respected position in my old days.
Around the age of 45-50 I'd pick out three girls around sixteen to couple and mate with, because we couldn't let my divine acquaintances go to waste, could we? And all would rejoice in the birth of my son. Or daughter. Either would be obscurely announced in my prophecies. I'd rejoice in the arms of my three sixteen year old women.
Yup. That's what it would be like, I can assure you. Assuming I had actually led them in the right direction, that is. If not, I’d be thoroughly fucked. To me it would've been a simple choice back then; be stoned as entertainment or rule the group for decades.
But, as I said, sometimes we all just have to face facts...!
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.