This is going to sound crazy but … you don’t HAVE to go. You know that, right?
Have to go where?
If you’re about to say to Europe, don’t even
I feel angry imagining you saying that
I would like to know why the suggestion of not HAVING to go is so jarring
It’s about how I desperately want and need to get the fuck out of this life — want-want-want — not a shred of should — and how the way that I make such things happen for myself is to put some logistical thing in place that I believe to be the ultimate authority
took my inaugural european poop by skylight in a room that is also itself a shower stall. the airbnb host purports by profile to speak english and hindi (no danish, i guess), and we haven’t met but i believe him. i took a fitful nap on sheets that smelled like maybe they hadn’t been prewashed for me per se but who cares?? it’s inevitably cleaner by volume than the airliner seat that was my last place of rest and fully reclined, too. whoever’s room it usually is is a smoker, i’m sure, and reads books with titles like FINANCE FOR NON-FINANCIAL MANAGERS. later i wandered the brickyard and took this photograph of a mirror in some ivy under a window from which spilled music i once was regularly acquainted with, back when i almost had an indian mother in law.
Now I have walked the river feeling envious of people laughing and eating and canoodling on blankets. Lax or no prohibition against open containers, apparently. Danish flags are everywhere, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s National Denmark Day? I am sitting on some benchy step-type things above the canal in Christianhavn and watching a raven tear at the shredded lettuce and whatever else is inside some crumpled sandwich paper left by a trio of thuggish Danes who were supping here until recently, when they left without first becoming my friends.
I think I’ll take a walk over to Freetown Christiania, maybe buy a joint, see if that’ll help me sleep during a time more broadly regarded here as night. Yes. And on the way I will scan the ground for generous bits of remaindered cigarettes with which to roll a spliff.
One fellow in a clump of drunken others still eating sandwiches and getting drunker in the vicinity is singing Destiny’s Child.