"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>photo blog #5: copenhagen


july 20-23, 2006

tivoli gardens.
not once did i walk inside.

ancient buildings portray the sorrow of the people.

searching the sky, a tower with a gilt engraving catches your eye.

something your camera doesn’t understand.

touring an ancient ballroom, you feel surrounded by a sumptuous glamour you don’t subscribe to.

the ornate structures stand at either side.

finally, the world feels immediate and real again. the legs of the people whip around.

they spin on their heads, smiling.

their bodies fly.

well, that’s one name for it.

just be.

in the heart of the old city, against an old fountain that the homeless were brushing their teeth in, i saw a beautiful scene that i secretly stole.

i stared and stared at them. my heart ebulliant.

looked down, a sea of cobblestones.

remember the forbidden cartoons of the prophet mohammed? in the main square, danish muslims demanded their respect, stolen.

“islam: the only alternative to capitalism” they shouted, filling the streets.

copenhagen’s urban murals hide outside of the downtown cores.

magnamious colours, churning shapes.

a hand wrapped around a heart-shaped something.

the cobblestones are laughing at you.

the wind slashes your face.

to a 17th century theatre, where you walk across a stage under a spotlight, and feel a century-well of performances emanating from under your feet.

the masks of expression.

a mired city, mirrored.

beyond the cheap goods sold at kiosks, friends sit amongst the patio chairs and drink.

hanging from a wire, an arrow blew in the wind. one side read “cold.”
the other side = “feet.”

my last day in copenhagen, quietly doing my laundry, i noticed my legs in the reflection of the dryer. it was like i had company.

i read the Mendacity issue of Kiss Machine, written by tamara faith berger (art direction by one of my talented buddies, stef lenk!!), in preparation for the upcoming interview.

i keep repeating one line from that graphic novella over and over in my brain.

i have you engraved on the palm of my hands.

i know what she means.

One response

  1. Pingback: The Best Life | The Spadina Monologues

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