dear norwegian air and the gods that vested in me the foresight to buy a ticket inclusive of the vegetarian meal option: thank you for this bite of salad i am about to enjoy, most likely without the added flavor of ketchup packet for scale
My lovely Danish cat lady host and bike-lender is pushing a healthy Danish six feet tall, so the first thing I did today was ride the borrowed bike directly to the coffee shop out of which my friend the proprietor also rents out bikes and ask him to take a wrench to its seat height for me. Then I hung around a while, getting rowdy on a latte—I guess now commences a slide back into caffeine, as everywhere there is no other choice—and advice on how to live. He told me to seek out Jewish painters and/or musicians in Berlin, that they will anchor the energy I’m out here after. He said, Danish people are like fucking ice.
A man just sat down near me outside this cafe where I am having twitchy post-club afternoon frūstūck and emptied the ashtray on his table into the ashtray on the table between us
It makes me think of people who have to flush a toilet before they can use it
Does it matter if your own waste falls upon the waste of others
Everything about yesterday was exhausting. I left Pilou before the meal of snails because it became too much work to chat with him in French. I got into the house okay and ate the rest of my cheese and seven apricots and three carrots and half a loaf of bread soaked in coconut oil because it was what I had.
Today I’m a little overrun with my physical self — yesterday I got barnacles embedded in my foot and I have a good surgical needle, carried with me, but man this is a job, and on account of the IUD I had placed in New York I find I bleed from my reproductive organs in a newly voluminous way — like, a leaving bloody handprints on Sylkaʼs bathroom walls way. What a burden is a body.
I am redrawing ma pancarte now, and after this I will go buy barres énergetiques, and then I will go to the beach.
A seagull near me is having a hard time eating a whole ice cream cone.
In the same bar that la patrona of my casa rural brought me to last week, killing time before my blablacar to Barcelona, I have ordered some kind of open-faced mini-sandwich featuring something squiggly and, to my eye, marine.
Pescado, said the barman to my quizzicality, but I bet it’s not actually, not taxonomically.
Everyone is starting to look familiar to me, moving so quickly from place to place as I am.