spit them out, these wasted days and wet-green nights rising up from your esophagus to greet against anyone’s will your
lovers and your sisters and your friends and your parents make them
worry for you but never too much just enough to catch a whiff of the smoldering
human brains on stone tiled floors where
cold gets in so easy feel it creeping up the carnage contaminated by the time
it grabs your feet and legs to drag you under
i’m okay, i’m okay — you’re shoveling shouting reaching out to grab hold of whatever’s in reach
creamy rose pink with green sparkles dribbles thick makes you feel
safe watching feel the grip slip this is how we
fight our wars with pink with glitter with ooze like
crying all that bile from your eyes the sticky
worms running playground drills up and down your throat
red rover, red rover, why don’t you come over?
red used to scare you always creeping in or up
more often out
that drip drip down your shaking knees that
seeping out the gashes in your stomach like a watermelon past its prime now just remember– don’t eat the seeds, you can’t afford for anything to grow inside you, and neither can the anything– that environment is uninhabitable
for living things
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
A frigid night in Lyon. I lay in the routine position: awkwardly inclined like a sausage propped against a toaster, neck strained forward, sweating into my body brace. It’s the nightly ritual: a wistful trail of martini with lime (affordable and effective!), google searches, flight scanners, sound clips and calendar dates. I haven’t travelled since I made it to France and promptly broke my spine. Mobility lurks in the distant future, and in my fervent, drunken dreams I seek vengeance for lost time: travels awaiting, work to be done, things to be lifted, reckless thrashing at concerts, less-awkward coitus.
A second martini, a third martini, a realization: I am in an optimal situation to make a bet with myself.
Buy a ticket somewhere, make yourself go. Come summer you’ll be able. Pick a place.
The place is Copenhagen, the challenge an eight-day music festival, camping on private farmland, a very eclectic setlist (see below.) I’ll have no friends, no contacts, maybe even no tent (will I even be able to carry one by then?) The ticket price isn’t bad; this month I can skip meals. I hardly eat anyway, too depressed. It’s December. The festival is in July. I am four martinis deep. I buy the ticket.
Alone on a train crammed with day-drunkards lugging cases of beer back to the plots of land they had fought to stake off a day in advance. Other festival-goers were traveling in close-knit social groups and possessed advanced technology such as human food and beer coolers. My mission: infiltrate a group. Gain its trust, gain a patch of its grass to sleep on.
Niko was chubby and slouched back in a blue folding chair. His camp, notably playing decent metal, had regurgitated itself into the staked-off walkway between blocks of tents. At first I thought he might be dead of alcohol poisoning, but he reached out to me as I passed with my pack, slurring in Danish and throwing up bullhorns. I stopped for a beer. Danes speak beautiful English and carry beer with them everywhere.
I pretended to look for a different spot to pitch my single tent, then came trotting back to Camp Niko. “Guess I have to live with you guys,” I shrugged. Didn’t give them much of a choice.
Potential expansions to this blog post included:
Planking every morning for my back, much to the amusement of other campers.
Peeing in my tent accidentally – trying to aim into a bag?
Almost tipping over an employee trailer, from the inside (employee was present.)
The time I woke up with a video on my phone of an uncircumcised penis wearing sunglasses and laughing — no recollection of this being recorded.
Names — Niko, Lasser, Chris, Christina, Bender? The one always wearing overalls with no undershirt, what was his name? Biscuit?
Spoke at length with Chelsea Wolfe and Amalie of Myrkur, nearly peed myself a second time.
Camp Red Warszawa was a camp of female punk rockers and their pleasantly drunken male cohorts. I stopped in and noticed Dunner immediately. He was nearly seven feet tall, had crappy tattoos, was wearing socks and slip-on sandals. He held a water fountain on for me while I rinsed the salt/dirt/beer/urine from my face.
I taught him how to pitch a tent properly. He had propped it up, damn city fool—what did he do? Poles inside the tent? Man, if that whole ordeal wasn’t to become a really effective metaphor. He gashed his hands open on the metal stakes, I tasted his blood in my mouth, tasted his mouth on my mouth.
Eight days. Survived.
August 5, 2015
Kristina, smexy red-haired hot-blooded sugar mama waitress wonder woman, booked us a night in a swanky hotel called The Phoenix where all of the highbrow employees didn’t even bother to hide their confounded staring — what the fuck are these muddy brokeass chicks doing in our establishment? We got stoned, delineated The Friend Zone, shared our ex-boyfriend histories start to finish and fell asleep to late-night Danish television: documentaries on hawks, strange compilations of sleeping people dressed as animals, surveillance videos of empty hallways. There are so many questions about the Danes that will never be answered.
Sick in the shitty hostel: Lame efforts to get out (invent a tolerable mucus metaphor?)
Not worthy of further elaboration.
this is why I haven’t written about any of this
Dunner’s apartment took me a bit aback. I hadn’t expected a 35-year-old seven-foot Danish metalhead to be so neatly organized or so devoted to such a strict color scheme (purple and orange — how thoroughly metal of you.)
We had agreed to one (1) weekend visit. By that I mean we were both drunk in the dark in his dilapidated, bloodstained ten-person tent on Night Eight Of Roskilde and I straddled him on the twin inflatable mattress and said, “Can I come visit you when this is over? Just for a weekend,” to which he (presumably) agreed.
But the weekend after the festival, the flu set in. Everyone said it was due to over-inhalation of the piss-dust for which Roskilde Festival is particularly notorious, which might be true. I spent the one (1) weekend visit collapsed on Danish Dunner’s Danish furniture, blowing chunks in his Danish toilet, sliming up his purple Danish shag rug. When the weekend was over, he headed down south with a group of friends, a trip he’d had planned all year. I bought a bus ticket to Berlin. He left the apartment, lingered down in the stairwell blinking up at me, wrapped in a blanket in his doorway.
My entire three (3)-week stay with Dunner was to be an eternal series of us saying goodbye for the last time, once, twice, three times. I repeatedly intended to leave, but was repeatedly too ill to go. Week One I passed locked alone inside his apartment, without a spare key to leave or go buy medicine or food. When he returned he found me red-eyed in a blanket fort re-watching his downloads of The Simpsons, having subsisted on canned tuna and corn for three days. On Week Two, he made me an offer: he’d cancel his family vacation if I canceled my bus to Berlin. We started Game of Thrones. Life was free and air-conditioned and Dunner cooked a good deal of dishes involving bacon while wearing nothing but his boxer briefs. On Week 3 he drove me to the hospital, where I was curtly informed that the antibiotics I needed were impossible to acquire in Denmark. We explored the Danish countryside, the harbors, the farms, the flatness, the city — through the remains of the destroyed Youth House in Norrebrø, in and out of squats, over public structures and playgrounds and cemeteries, where the trees smelled mysteriously of semen. I limped around and he limped with me, just to make me feel better.
When I was well enough he dropped me off in Copenhagen, his eyes rimmed with tears, pressing his spare apartment key into my palm for “just in case.” He told me he loved me. I told him I was late for my bus.
Ferry, København to Berlin
August 22, 2015
Yesterday I received my Spain placement. In IBIZA.
IN MOTHERFUCKING IBIZA.
Perhaps this is some kind of sick joke from the higher powers/malignant forces of evil in the world? The exact last place I would have chosen. Nasty tourist rave-kid madhouse in summer and a total ghost town in the winter. Mallorca (the bigger island) is covered in mountains, a cycling paradise, good climbing rocks. Ibiza is covered in used condoms, discarded bikinis and probably AIDS. Do I have to get a Brazilian now? Will they even let me access the island without one? I will trade my post with someone, if possible. Otherwise… I don’t know, I’m so conflicted. Who am I to moan and groan, homeless as I am? Beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point I’m only a step away from beggar. Might as well get the visa and see where it goes from there. Going back to the US is not a viable option. It’s not what my gut is telling me to do, but my gut is also not feeling Ibiza.
More good news — French debit card has been shut down, I just got a text that my phone usage rates have gone up to 3€ a minute, my bank login info is stuck on my computer, which is still in Milan — sometimes I am a dipshitty, rookie traveler. Another white kid with a backpack. I brought too many clothes and the wrong type of shoes, gave up on my only pair of pants too early (although the thigh holes have been giving me rashes and I already failed at fixing the shorts.) I’m too grubby-looking to avoid being surveyed with considerable distaste in public but not nearly grubby enough to be taken seriously by other hobos. I feel an urgent need to somehow turn all my shit a darker color, maybe sprout a couple of natty dreads for Street Cred. Darken my sleeping bag so I can’t be found so easily at night. Urban camouflage? Dirt is not dirty enough — I mean what can I use, like actual shit?? Certainly not DYE. That costs money and requires washing services (those cost money too.) Now I need a shit phone with some breed of prepaid plan. I’m the fattest I’ve ever been and my fucking back aches like a shitty ole bitch.
Tired fatty just wants to lie down.
Alright folks, I’d like to try and tell you about Dublin. I feel like I owe you at least that much. But I’m having trouble, see, because if Paris (or any city in France, really) is a nice classy woman exiting her limo and stepping delicately over a homeless man as she flits into a high-end cocktail bar, Dublin is a raw-legged tramp who just ditched the bill for a couple of pints eagerly pulling the homeless man into a taxi to get his pants off. The homeless man will happily be paying the fare.
In short, Dublin’s got the right idea about things.
But perhaps to kick off I should first mention Nice in the south of France, Nice which is bright shiny and gorgeous 364 days out of the year but rainy and ranging from 7 to 9 degrees Celsius with the wind chill on the day we were to pass through. Yet despite this frigidity the Mediterranean glowed pale turquoise under the grey of the sky and man, how that lady can beckon. Tourists and locals alike got their kicks watching as I clambered out of clothes and into blue water, air shocked from my lungs and the sky rumbling grey above, foolish girl again doing foolish thing but foolish girl hasn’t tasted saltwater since before she broke her spinal column and really couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything other than greeting the sea. Squeezing my frozen body back into skinny jeans while sticky with Mediterranean sea salt was more of a challenge, at which point one opportunistic middle-aged fellow up on the quay became notably fond of his camera. Casey held out a sweater and I struggled back into clothing while Elaine, bless her, kept busy shouting “YOU LIKE THAT, I SEE THAT YOU LIKE THAT” in loudly broken French.
Now, back to Dublin. The first thing you should know about Dublin is that Dublin loves you and it demands your love in return. Dublin is willing to work for it.
It’s illegal to purchase alcohol of any sort after 10 PM anywhere in the Republic of Ireland, which contributes directly to its universally thriving bar scene — one where pub crawls are packed with deceptively adolescent boys but it’s easy enough to find dashing Irish rapscallions partaking in their evening “mother’s milk” (creepy term for Guinness) while they bide their time awaiting a lady willing to cook them decent potato dishes in return for marriage vows. Dublin is a place where it is not possible to sleep before 5 AM if one is at all interested in flirting with rugged tattooed off-duty police officers or smoking in hostels with exceptionally friendly Croatians, in jumping in on ukulele orchestras or clubbing with handsome strangers keen on paying your way, in giving pep-talks to/charitably fondling desirous transvestites; in being tattooed late at night by a guy who is essentially Badger from Breaking Bad; in kicking a few back and communing with homeless folks and water hens down on the riverbanks; in lolling about in ancient crypts and shaking hands with 800-year-old Crusader mummies; in hanging out in bars dating back to the 1200’s or, at the very least, in drinking one’s dinner on the nightly.
We stayed four nights in Dublin, during which some of the above probably happened.
On to Galway and the Burren National Park, where resteth scattered tombs and burial remains dating back to 3000 B.C.E., where chalky sheep graze in dampened fields of grass and clover across rolling hills and rocky outcrops, dropping off on the brutal western coastline at the Cliffs of Moher (a.k.a. the Cliffs of Insanity, as featured in the Princess Bride.)
Our arrival in Galway coincided with the final day of “rag week”, an unfortunate chunk of time in which the closest European equivalents to fraternities and sororities do what those groups do best: get sloshed to the point of no return, pretend that they’re interesting individuals and hump each other in public. The boys break glass all over the damn place and the gals later walk around barefoot, toting their overly-ambitous heels and contracting various forms of Hepatitis. This booze-charged display of gratuitous juvenile douchebaggery had enveloped most of downtown Galway and, as it reminded me sickeningly of frat row back in Eugene, I did not rest long. Trudging back to the hostel one evening, my newfound French comrades and I stumbled upon an old man resting contentedly in the street with an enormous bloody hematoma on his forehead, and while we flagged down staff to call an ambulance this man took quite a shining to me. He grasped my hand tightly, telling me all about himself (name, address, the fact that he used to be a renowned street fighter and was chummy with Tom Hanks) and in the end I had to stay with him as I was the only person to whom he was willing to give his information. I explained frankly to my bewildered compadres that, according to the recurrent patterns of my life, it made quite a bit of natural sense that this man would select me as a BFF.
Ireland is an indelicate balance of esoteric landscape and raw humanity; one minute you find yourself contemplating the meaning of existence and simplicity in the clover fields and the next you’re shocked back down to earth by drunkards howling in the streets and the searing whiskey shot you just took to get your evening going. My French companions interpreted the Irish way as sleazy and inelegant, and I suppose they’re not exactly wrong. But for me this break from the delicate, guarded French approach to all affairs in life was a startling breath of fresh air and a welcome relief. I felt as though I’d unshouldered a heavy knapsack I’d been slogging around unwittingly for the past few months, and this feeling of intense calm chased me all throughout the country – from Galway down to Limerick for half-pints of Guinness, melted cheese sandwiches and old men hollering at the televised rugby game; to Killarney shoving into sweaty pubs and live music with Elaine and Lisa, a hot-blooded badass from Austria who travels Europe on her motorcycle; while winding through the unrestrained misty wilderness in the southern part of the isle on an inter-city bus; while passing the evening with a scruffy Irish bloke in a mescal bar on my last night in Cork. I even made some money when I demanded cash from a carful of guys that had hollered in my direction; they scrambled to get five euro together and handed it over without a word. That’s Ireland for you.
By the time Elaine and I reached Paris on our eighth day we were exhausted on every imaginable level, and our rapidly dwindling motivation to return to Lyon drove us to stay and recuperate two days with my dear Australian friend Leanne. We successfully visited the Parisian Catacombs, which I will save for a future post. That’s all for now, folks.
Ireland, you remarkable old floosie, you stole meh heart right out o’ me.
May the winds of fortune sail you,
May you sail a gentle sea.
May it always be the other guy
who says, “this drink’s on me.”