I’ve been thinking about how my typewriter will be a great friend-making device on my impending journey to a strange land, but also, there is a coffee shop in my neighborhood that I have been asked not to come back to and it’s because someone complained on the internet about me — I found the stuff and it was not so nice and used the word “Jurassic” — so I guess also the typewriter is a good way to make enemies.
• yes yes YES • this • if only books hadn’t been the first ballast tossed overboard when my ever-loving roommate, back in brooklyn, wrestled me yesterday from two suitcases down to one • it’s okay • i’ll milk white noise as long as i can • then something else will happen such that i may read again • also full disclosure it was actually the second ballast • the first was extra journals • you’re carrying around empty pages, rachel, he said • i didn’t correct him that those are books, too, books i haven’t written yet • he’s right, of course, though • i’m pretty sure one can buy paper in denmark •
Today I went back to the café where I made my one Danish friend the last time I was here, an old hippie who called me out right away as jøde because he himself is, too, and there he was, waiting to hug me good and tell me to come back on Friday, by which time he’ll be through with the ministry of food health or whatever they call it here and ready to ping-pong — his verb—with me about what I might do from now onward. The Danish aren’t particularly open-minded to what is known as networking, he says, for they miss the point that to let someone new into a circle is to one’s own benefit, too. The Germans, he says, will be different.
Now it is six minutes ’til ten at night and I am only just beginning to need a reading lamp to write by, which really could be called a writing lamp if not for the crushing creative imperative.
Some chicks I took from a distance for basic are now sitting on this wooden walkway, against the red fence over which I and anyone can look downward onto the terrestriality of Freetown Christiania, and I can see the enormous intricate tattoos one of them has running the lengths of her thighs and that the other is sharing an apple with her dog. They’re just naturally that blonde; it’s not a choice they make that correlates to a bunch of other choices I might infer they make, too.
If I start to make these private musings public, perhaps some sort of THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS SOCIAL PREJUDICE warning will be in order. Or maybe just a note at the bottom that I considered it and ultimately settled on a note at the bottom.
Back at the Ved Amagerport apartment, I make myself a bedtime shandy of Ribena and Carlsberg cut with a lot of tap water.
Is now the part when I try out writing in the second person? Ahem:
Back at the Ved Amagerport apartment, you make yourself a bedtime shandy of Ribena and Carlsberg cut with plenty of Copenhagen tap water. During the kitchen portion of the apartment tour, Inga told you the tapwater here is excellent, which is good to hear because you’ve been drinking it for two days yet. You think it tastes funny nationwide so far but are so very spoiled by New York City. Later, during the bathroom portion, Inga told you the water is also very hard — a lot of Danish calcium — so the temperature knob of the shower faucet doesn’t move as easily as a user might like. Later still, you try writing in the second person and find it horribly, prohibitively audience-conscious.