It’s such a beautiful city. I thought of you. Walked by the water with the wind in my hair. My only comforting thought of your not-being-here was that you wouldn’t see me with the wind in my hair. A grey day in a beautiful city. Eating up this city as much as I can. Probably the last few weeks here before I will be in another city. Finally hungry again, haven’t been since summer. Haven’t wanted to experience the city since I needed to put my jacket on. I’m tied up in scarves. Walk around with my gloves like a frozen boxer in this beautiful city. Boxes are standing in my room, waiting to be filled. Reminding me that this stretch of time in this beautiful city has come to an end. Guitar stands beside them. Made so many songs in this room. Figured I would write a bunch of urban poetry and music while I was here. Did. Don’t know if it’s especially urban, guess some of it is.
Interested in philosophy of literature/arts these days. The thought of how a work is connected to both the author, the time and the place – whether it is or not. Don’t feel like I could have made the things I’ve made any other place, yet don’t feel like most of them are all that urban. Do believe whatever experience you’ve had through your day/week/month/life will somehow shape whatever you decide to do. No, I don’t think I could have written this any place else. Even this here blog post right now. It depends on me taking a walk earlier. It depends on that walk being in this city. It depends on my change in circumstances and last but not least it depends on me having just watched Manhattan.
I keep going back and forth between loving and hating this city. At times I feel so alienated by everyone and everything here. On a day-to-day basis I don’t see myself belonging here. Not now and probably not ever. But those opportunities that a city of this magnitude present, it’s hard to say no to those. A new concert every night if I so desire. With very good acts and at a very small fee most of the time. That’s my dilemma: I love the opportunities, but I don’t feel at ease with the way of life. I’m more comfortable in smaller towns. Towns where I feel like I have a realistic shot at having an influence without devoting my entire life to it. I think my relationship with this city is less than it should be: I’m in it for the sex. I’m in it for the events – and the day-to-day life is something I have to live with to get that bonus.
But I thought of you. I thought of you as I did last night at the concert. And I said to myself: My, what a place this could be! knowing very well that it won’t ever be. And this last year has confirmed that. This was to be my final attempt at talking myself into staying. But thinking about you has only made it more clear to me that I should get away from here. I never do anything without intentions. I came here with intentions, but I haven’t even seen you since I came here. Judging by all that’s going on, it’s probably for the best. That’s probably how we can best keep on living in the good manner we do now. I would just end up betting everything, as I always do, and lose it all. And it would drive you nuts and do nothing to me at all, because it never does anything to me. I cry for a week and then I’m on to my next attempt.
It’s so hot in my room. It’s almost like summer. I really wish summer was here. Everything was so much easier in the summer. If there was a problem in the apartment, if the mood was sub-zero, I could just go out into the summer. Go to the harbor, sit by the water at the theater, go to the cemetery. Man, I haven’t been to the cemetery since September or October. What was it I wrote here on my blog in the high summer? That everyone should go to the cemetery at least once a month? Something like that. So much for preaching.
My main writing-problem is the same as it was a couple of weeks ago. I feel like my best writing goes into these blog posts. My most inspired writing, at least. Where I quickly find myself stuck when I try to write poetry or longer texts I feel my mind coming up with new ideas all the time whenever I’m on here. Maybe that’s the kind of book I should make: a collection of blog posts. It isn’t all that far-fetched. Sartre’s Nausea is written as a diary, Kierkegaard’s Either-or is written as a collection of letters. It would just be the 21st century approach to that kind of fiction. Or autofiction, whatever it would be in my case. I don’t think of it as taking these blog posts and make a book out of them. Just: using this type of writing to make the book. I have tried to take advantage of this before, started to write stories on the blog, but they never last more than a prologue. I need to find some dedication.
I hate that I’m leaving this beautifully frustrating city. I hate that I’m moving far away from you again, even though neither of us would have known we lived near each other if it wasn’t for Google Maps. I hate that my latest fling (if I can call it that, Visions of C.) seems to have already died out. I hate that I rarely feel in charge of my own life. Not because I’m under anyone’s will or power. Just that I don’t take charge. I need to learn how to do that. I’m slowly improving. But there are only certain areas where I feel like I can safely assume power of my own life, and really do what I want to do. There are just so many places where I don’t feel at home, and when I don’t feel at home, I can’t get myself to do anything. I only really feel at home when I’m all alone or there’s a band in front of me.
I’ll end this with a Danish poem I wrote the other night after a great concert with Viet Cong. The poem has nothing to do with Viet Cong, though.
der viser sig som et øjeblik
om et øjeblik
med dig foran mig
vægten af dit hår i min hånd
lukker jeg øjnene
nyder uendeligheden i dit hår
dette år har sat spor ned gennem mit liv
ungdoms somre i stilhed
eksploderet i lyd
du rokker med musikken
din krop som formidler
og jeg sukker med dit hår i min hånd
——uendeligheden i min hånd
over dette øjeblik
ved det allerede inden jeg åbner øjnene
der har stået mig klart de sidste mange år:
det er ikke dig
håret i min hånd er
men en fremmed piges
og den eneste uendelighed
er dagene fra sidst jeg så dig