Copenhagen Diaries

 

I decided to start a journal of real things, without inspiration, travelogues, within a journey. You get it...what don't you get? I simply want to avoid some cases without Aesopian language, so that years later I have answers and my own account of my events, of course.

I'm sitting comfortably on a plane, Ryanair, a cosmically cheaper airline, as 40 quid for a flight from London to Malmö was a struggle between food and a ticket.

They show you nonsense about how to fasten your seatbelt, how to use gas, and here's a head of hair trimmed to a fine gray. Yesterday, a few sand grains ago, I shaved my head with my hand, and my optimism immediately sank to the bottom, probably because I like to emphasize differences over fat. I explain individualism without conversation. I washed the remnants of my fine hair in the bathtub of my jabong toys, and in the morning, the note was still hanging on the window.

"Benny, did you wash your hair after cutting it into a toy Jabang?

"I'm sure she'll love bathing with your hair."

Well, I'm entirely responsible for that, and you have to give it to me. But what good is it, my dear friend, if in about two months Santa Barbara will carry me away, sand and mountains. If my memory holds, and the tremors in my hands cease, because from the earth I soared upwards, as in heaven, so on earth, at an angle, or with my nose, I break through clouds, trails long since discovered. Peace again on high, without alcoholic tremors, with a "Menta" T-shirt and Nicholson smiling, I find the satisfaction of my end. I long for catastrophe, catastrophe will repay this "cursed debt."

And the mob grows hair like mine and circles in the same regions, and clouds marking nails will grow someday.

I'm waiting at a Swedish airport, unpacking my luggage like a spear in a skirmish that will set off the machine of wonder, inspiration, and snow, so wonderfully combined with the fog leaving Malmo, which is why it's March 24th.

I boarded the bus from the airport, unable to connect the cards with the ATM. He's a dull guy, after an English construction project, and I won't buy more memory, though the old computer is sluggish. ObservingMr. Lee Butler from the front seat, my thoughts unearthed what he called my boss until yesterday. This friend called to thank me for doing a great job for him, "done," I should say, to gain favor and lose the vulgarity I carry around with me. My friend Lee climbed with his brother in India on sharp and often fragile rocks, explored the world on the coral reef. A helicopter taxi for the snowboard peaks would descend to the ground, because every now and then, it's necessary.

It was at his place in Tire that I learned about the admission to the Californian Riviera, where I would not miss a moment of the sun and would ride a bicycle in duels with fulfillment.

It's just the third minute I'm passing a gigantic bridge, the sides of which are covered with fog, so I'm riding through a land of nothingness, and suspicions beside me. It's already five o'clock, and here the cosmos of nature is putting on a show, allowing gawkers to show off their lives, their worthless creativity. The stone along the road is a wartime trench, as we entered the tunnel, as we entered the tunnel, the sun, my friend, I quickly beg for the boulders to open fully

. Arriving, I've packed my luggage, hood, hip belt, and chest belt, and a cyclist jostled me with insults: "eeeeoooo." This was my first encounter with the cycling charm of Copenhagen; after that, it's history... roads conquered by the will of pedaling. I had to pass through the main station and ignore the no-entry gate, until I exchanged explanations with the guard. The morning traveler's request was met, every hot dog I encountered, I'll sarcastically say, a tasty one. I ask how it is, "I've arrived," and leave that for them to say.

The street on Priamo greeted me with the improbable sight of a concentration camp, with cables, a long gray brick corridor, balconies without balconies, lamps without hats. Without signs, without directions, I survey the area with a strange feeling, nourished, small. In the opposite corner of my original building, a picture of "Sleep in Heaven" protrudes, and now I see... the fog has revealed the graffiti of "a dog flying on a balloon."

The usual questions and explanations, though I could have dragged a slipping bag, what would a rented blanket do? A customary room, I can accurately say, four by three meters, soothes only the tio. Only a sip of stability could have been useful to them, because as I hooked axes and drove in hooks, the third floor quails curiously. I won't avoid the hearse of sleep, but I will manage to wake strangers. Actually, I felt guilty about not blaming myself, like alcohol, sobriety advocates have swapped beer for a glass of wine flowing before me, and on TV they show an aquarium equipped with green rocks. A blue fish appears and disappears, perhaps manifests and penetrates.

"I'll go now, or why will I sit here alone?"

A museum of sex, or rather erotica, and they say:

"Charlie Chaplin called himself:

"The Eighth Wonder of the World"

Virgius – The most beautiful from all human life."

He one declared:

"Is the very young girl just starting to bloom."

Preferring young girls resulted in four marriages (three to women 18 or younger).

Little compared to that pub gave my aspirations a museum of sex, a candlestick grows branches from the window, dozens of disheveled shoulders like hair on gel hold fiery hearts in a tearful track, wax eaves branches and strengthens roots, with such an earthy scent he writes:

"Philosophers are those who can touch what is always the same in the same respect. They always love that science which has revealed to them something of the essence of things, of that which always exists and does not wander and is not entangled by the result of origin and destruction. (...) His guide (philosophy) was, if you remember, truth. He was to follow it unconditionally and in every respect, or else he would be a braggart and never have anything in common with true philosophy (...) Whoever truly loves knowledge is by nature eager to pursue what exists and cannot stop at the numerous individual cases that only pass for reality; he will go on, will not weaken, and will not cease to love until he has touched the essence of each thing with that part of his soul which is given to touch and something like that. He will approach the essential being with it, unite with it, begin to understand the truth, and will truly live and in this He fed himself struggling, and sooner or later, not. Isn't that so?

They (my legs) crawled to the shelter, where the bed is on the third floor, and here's a domino. What's it really about? A series of human influences? Could it be the influence of one character, like a wave, through the next and the next, destroying, building, other characters, principles, packing wagons for long Siberian journeys, then the frost has something of a human quality... To cross the Bering Strait, he had to tame his reflection in the ice, become indifferent like ice, for it would fall into an ice hole the next day, planned, and on top of all that, not crumble yet. He blew away Alaska's first smiles with a breath, he knew the secret directions of the frost, just as he drew nourishment from solitude, so the land warmed his count of progress, tearing up the forbidden idea for a passport of fears. Canada, to climb to the heights? No... Beating a fever doesn't mean finding a gold nugget. But I've seen so many of them misread the tablets, confusing beginning with end and will with performance. They sheltered the soul from the body and the satiety curled up under a roof against the sun. They imposed equal rights with a knife (a revolver), and the Iroquois declared the necessity of severed heads because knives cut white, disgusting umbilical cords, and the Iroquois didn't write works on nature... but merely protected them.

I played a Swedish-looking dignitary; he drew me to a draw and sent me to the shower. Isn't Plato Perfect? ​​A bounty abroad tastes so... where is "abroad"? Where will I ever face, still abroad. When does emigration become home? Why, after a two-year stay, is Britain still a country alien to my heart, and Maciej, after seven, soon to have a passport and no will to leave, as the rat underground is supposed to call it?

Nature is my home, and I always return to it with a smile on my face.

And then they played a sad song with an optimistic ending:

"I wish I had my woke-toke."

I'm sitting here after a while, my pocket (not me) has already lost a hundred quid, and I don't give a damn, just like Plato explained beauty.

The postulate of that night, March 24, 2005, is to get wasted after a while—the amount doesn't matter, nothing matters, nothing matters anymore. famously, Copenhagen hostels have doorstops, even at the bottom of the door, which doesn't happen in colorful Britain.

I'd so much like to create one masterpiece of my own perfection and die.

The best part is that I don't give a damn about all this sightseeing compared to getting wasted. People are like traffic lights. They'll shine, shine, and then go out. And if I really only intruded on this book with my own thoughts, even I, years later, wouldn't understand what was going on.

"Morning."

And I got up, staggering again. I didn't bring a towel, so someone else's pillowcase serves reliably. A delicious breakfast with a shortbread roll recalled me of the so-called "before bedtime." The first drink costs about eighty quid by the end of the week, and it's making me a bit bloated, but "whatever."

I became friends with an Icelander who admitted that "stupid fucking questions" are the worst stupid questions on earth.

"People always know 3-4 famous motifs from Iceland, and with each encounter, someone else fanns the same flame.

Copy from laptop.

And here are the laughter of women of yesterday's complexion, cans of bottle caps, always in pairs, grunts a little stronger than the snot of honest people. Ordinary caps on red faces, and above them bright clouds cut with snow lines. To Calsberg (6:20) on the road.

Having left Minnesota, I found the poetry pub I needed. Everything in Danish, meaning understandable, nothing at all, but how the atmosphere of readings, deeper humor, allows one to feel creativity in simplicity, how humanity devoted to poetry favors the extraction of side journeys. What perspectives build the gift of giving and taking at the same time, the laughter of understanding rings more than redemption with a friendly series. The poet reads faithfully, nourishes. And truly, quiet joys every now and then invite to dance, with his hand nods "yes," something as if pushed into a split and down

, ...

The crowd prefers to talk to the poet, to poem, to understand. Has he already experienced this, written for you, for himself, or has he lied about anything? Oh yeah!! An innocent socialite, full of innocent experiences, but listen only to him, because with the same idiots in your heads you ask about realism.

Why do poets have so many things to sing about, and philosophy is hollowed out by a few centers of interest? Because poets lie about this or that just to be able to sing, while philosophers perish and go crazy for a single interpretation of profound truth.

Morning.

Morning woke me with the tapping of the hand at 3 o'clock. It's strange how I always get drunk, pouring out the rest. Explaining that stupid fucking questions. They explained that I'm ashamed of where I come from, stopping talking to me, and to the only remaining being I say this:

"What is love most important in life?

" "Yes, I think so.

"Have you ever fallen in love and been disappointed?"

"Nooo,

" she said, "You're like a typical woman."

I don't know why she turned around, saying,

"You're such a redhead, you always tell the truth."

Well, at two o'clock I decided to hit the road to any nightclub. What happened to me? Three guys on synthesizers, rock like Ros, were showing off in the courtroom, and dancing, as always individual.

"We meet friends in the study room," quoted an old man who didn't look his 71 years. The owner, a boy of the house and shop, invited me for a five-hour chat, telling good stories, accompanied by a medley of Swedish military bicycles, a piano, telescopes, maps, a compass, a gramophone, a watch from a 1920s car whose repairs he wasn't satisfied with, and many other items that gave the original atmosphere. He bought rusty and broken things to repair, painted them, cleaned with sand, and released them like pigeons for sale.

"Nice" is an understatement. I've taken stories worthy of the tsars from the pocket of life. He asked for my interpretation of a painting or photo showing five faces with a background the same color as the mouth, ears, and eyes, as if they weren't there at all. Well, "time is the birthday of disappearance." It started when he offered me a job as a carpenter. No, no, I remember now. It started when I heard loud music from an old gramophone. When I entered, I stood there for a long time, staring at myself, but when he appeared, he appeared. I'm talking about insults in Danish, outright shouting, and walking in front of me like a man possessed, until he finally turned off the music and spoke in English.

"You wanted to steal something."

"No, I didn't.

" "You already stole something, with your eyes."

I smiled, agreeing.

One of the stories is about a guy who met a girl through a matrimonial ad. You know, letters written, read, thoughts, presentations.