Bugs.

The only thing that hit me when I woke up was, boy there are a lot of bugs in this world. In these hot thunderstorm summer nights with dark clouds giving way to blasting sunflares, with electricity in everything we do and a humidity fooling your evening nature walk for a dive out off the coast of Australia, there are little black bugs in every layer of the air, from head to toe you become coated in a mixture of sweat and unspecified bugs, commonly referred to as thunderbugs, allowing imprecise causation to name whole species.

When I hide from nature and get inside with my computer or my games, there are a whole different kind of beasts that we refer to as bugs. They not so much happen in the world as they keep things from happening, going against the usual works of the wheels, throwing a wet cloth in the face of anyone trying too hard to get through these fictive lives. They’re never predictable, not named through an inductive inference like the thunderbugs, but they share a similarity with them nonetheless, in that we feel we would rather be without them, that they’re an irritating element of our lives, even if we realise that we’d have to change our lives dramatically if the naturebugs weren’t there. In like fashion our lives would be altered by the digital bugs not being there, for how often has progress been made when a genius encountered a problem in the existing web of truths? How little would we strive, if the world always everywhere functioned as we predicted it to? How quiet a digital life we would live without the digital bugs.

But then there’s a third kind of bug. And it’s the one that sticks out from the rest. The kind of bug we wish to be hit by, but is nonetheless a problem for us. It’s an emotive bug, a relational bug that binds us to people and things, and leaves us breathless–for a moment or a lifetime–while we try to feel deep down inside how this bug might shift the direction of our lives, leading us astray or finally onto the path, always blinding us with the sun in our eyes, feeling both too hot and never hot enough, always wanting more, always yearning to get closer to that all-consuming sun, burning our fingers, our toes, letting our foreheads melt in the face of the love bug as it bites through our skin, deep into the bleeding muscle beating life into our bodies. This might be the most dangerous bug of them all. But I never found an effective repellant. And I doubt I’ll find it now.

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Known unnamed.

The hidden spin of the ball. The lasting memory of a note. Wind floating along a cheekbone.

The hum of the electrical wires, connecting towns with cities with nature.

I’m looking for inspiration, a part of existence so unlike anything else. A feeling, but more than that. A directive to action. A call to arms and hands and fingers holding pens. A call for eyes to be drawn, and drawing.

Oh how I long to be on that childhood ocean of my waking dreams, able to feel the movement of the waves whenever I close my eyes. Having a ‘place’ to ‘go to’.

I have devolved, I feel. Have devolved into a consumer, looking for a new entertainment-fix. Too rarely closing my eyes to find the inspiration I have picked up. I have no doubt that I pick up more inspiration these days, but I fail to do anything with it.

I neglect my writing.

I neglect my thinking as I pace through weeks and months.

I promise myself ‘tomorrow will be different’. But I know tomorrow doesn’t come for another week. Two weeks.

Summer will once again toast my cheeks, will once again inspire me to go out and feel the sting of the grass, listen to the rattling of the leaves, taste the sweet fruits growing beneath the Golden Sun.

Once again taste lips, because what else is there for lips to taste but other lips tasting back. A most egoistical sharing where survival is equal to collision. Where orbits are broken and new galaxies form. Where matter becomes energy, heard half a world away in the hum of electrical wires.

We can be known unnamed.

Voluntary heartbreak.

I’m still wearing my Roskilde wristband. I always let stuff like that linger. Heck, I’m still wearing my NorthSider wristband as well. Two great festivals, both as a volunteer. I’m feeling more and more like this is the way I should go. That what I should focus on in my life is voluntary work. That’s not to say that I should make voluntary work all through my life, but that it should be the focus point. It should be the area into which I educate myself.

And finally I find myself following the shadow of my sister again. This is what she specialized in, and her job now is handling volunteers. From time to time I realize how similar we are, albeit from very different approaches. I’ve always looked up to her, maybe even idolized her a bit. She did everything well, she still does. But come high school I tried to take a different approach, and it was definitely the right choice for me. It wasn’t just because I wanted to try something different from her. I took to the humanities where she took to the business side of life. I think it was her sense of responsibility that led her that way, she has always been much more responsible than I have, and I guess she sensed – already then – that it would be the correct choice for the kind of education she wanted.

Now I want the same education that she has, business communication, and I come from a very different background. But I don’t think it will be too difficult. I think it will only help me, and the most important thing is that I have now find something that I really strive for, and that it is something that is meaningful for me to go through an education for. It will give me opportunities to get the jobs that I want. It will let me get into the positions I want to be in, where I can make a career for myself at a place such as Roskilde Festival. I can’t imagine myself not being a volunteer at Roskilde ever again, as I was last year, but at the same time I really want to “move up” in the system. I know I’m quite new compared to some others. 4 years of volunteer-experience is nothing compared to some people who have just volunteered at the festival for their 10th, 20th, 30th year. But I feel like this is the time for me to try to make a move. I’m young and full of ideas. I have fresh experience; I know what is working and what isn’t for the volunteers out in the sun and the rain doing the work, making the festival happen.

This year really was a tremendous year at Roskilde. The weather was so, so very kind to us. The Sun shone bright and high all through the days and way into the nights. It shone so much that we at last ended up wishing it would maybe dim just a bit. But of course it didn’t, and of course when it did the festival was over, and the timing had been perfect; a perfect week at the start of July, boxed in by rain on both sides, rain that didn’t affect the festival.

The music this year was amazing. I have an ongoing conversation with one of my best friends whether the programme gets better each year, or whether we just grow more confident in our tastes; just become more certain which concerts to go to and which to leave behind. We long ago left most of the concerts at the main stage to the average audience (I sound so elitist), who come for a day in the sun, sit on their chairs and drink their beer. That’s not for us. We seek the surprises at the small stages, and we gladly run from one stage at one end of the festival to another in the different end to make both concerts in time. I had an average of 7 concerts a day for the seven days where music played. That was a pretty good run, 49 concerts in total. And I’d say that probably 30 or so of them were memorable. 20 were very good, 10 excellent and 5 concerts brought me to some of the best places I’ve ever been to. So a really, really solid music year. And so much of it was new artists shining bright on the smaller stages. So much of it was kept away from the mass audience. That’s my ongoing love/hate relationship with music. That we seem to be so few who really want to dig deep into the music, who want to find out what is truly there. And I pity the artists, ’cause they give us their all, but most of those brilliant musicians on the smaller stages won’t ever reach an audience much bigger. And at the same time I love the way it is, because that means I can keep seeing them on the smaller stages – and smaller stages are just superior. Both sound and intensity is of a higher order on the smaller stages. I wouldn’t want to change that.

This year’s festival also brought with it some exercise for my heart. Of course. Especially one girl, whom I only know by first name, is stuck in my mind. On my last shift guarding the gate (a shift where I checked Kendrick Lamar’s wristband – just saying) we were critically understaffed. We were just two guys in a period where we ought to have been five or six. It was pure mayhem all through the night, running wild to make sure we could cover all areas – and drunk people not thinking about the workload we were handling. But in the middle of the night, after shifting help from some of the more “official” Roskilde Festival volunteers, we were finally getting help from 2 girls who were working by the stages, making sure the toilets were sort of clean. They had time to come and help us for a couple of hours, and one of them, Victoria, was just the sweetest person I’ve met in a long time. We clicked instantly and had so much fun even though it was 3 o’clock in the middle of the night, and it was at the end of the festival, so everything from the feet and up was hurting. We found each other’s company such a delight in the night, and she shared her banana with me, we took shifts taking bites. But suddenly they were off duty, two hours before my partner and I, and we hugged goodbye and goodnight, and that’s the last I saw of her. And I have regretted not getting her number ever since. Or her last name. Or anything, any kind of clue to find her. And then I come home and watch How I Met Your Mother, the episode where Ted meets the girl at the wedding, and they decide to try to make a perfect, untainted memory of a wonderful wedding date where they won’t exchange last names or numbers or any kind of information that could lead to their whereabouts – and her name is Victoria as well, and I just throw myself around in my bed, sighing one of my great big cry-sighs at the world. But Ted found her. So now I’m optimistic, as always. That’s why I never ask for a number. Because of my stupid faith in the universe to bring me back to the girl again.

But I’m home, and I’m feeling good despite missing out on getting to know her. And I’m writing songs again. I hadn’t written songs for quite some time. And I have all sorts of new music to listen to as well. And then of course I’m lying in my bed listening to The War on Drugs, like always. Because Lost In The Dream really is the only album anyone ever needs to listen to, and they played it so beautifully live at the festival. And I had been looking forward to seeing them again ever since I saw them in Copenhagen last year. And everything is pretty good, and the album ends now. And I should probably get some sleep.

I’ll write again when I’ve found Victoria. (and probably quite a few times before then)

Not quite Manhattan.

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.

Uendeligheden
der viser sig som et øjeblik
om et øjeblik
——gennemskuet tiden
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
——voldsom takt
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
dette uundgåelige
der har stået mig klart de sidste mange år:
det er ikke dig
håret i min hånd er
ikke dit
men en fremmed piges
og den eneste uendelighed
er dagene fra sidst jeg så dig

Hi outer space.

There’s just something about different music that gets the mind flowing. I’m currently listening to Maroma by Pasatono Orquesta, some Mexican circus music. That’s the beauty of music, and the modern world. In no time your day can change because you hear something you have never heard before. Something that is so different from your normal music routine, that you can’t help but notice it. Can’t help but be drawn in. The closest thing I can come to ever having heard anything remotely resembling to this is probably Beirut. And that’s saying something. It has this amazing, sad summer feel to it. It’s the sound of summer ending, or of a cloudy day in mid-July. Most of all it’s the sound of the amazing world you can meet at Roskilde. And I’m wearing a deodorant I usually wear at Roskilde, so I’m really taken back right now. And I really don’t have time for daydreaming about Roskilde, but when Roskilde comes knocking you always let it in. If you can get that feeling at any other time of the year than at Roskilde, you gladly take it. There’s just never enough of Roskilde.

I’m moving to Copenhagen these days, moving in with Rikke. I’m so glad. I can really feel that this is the right thing for me. I can feel that we’re going to have the best time. There’s just something about the way we work together that is so well crafted for living together. We have all the same ideas about how the apartment should look. Our daily routines fit very well together. We both enjoy company, but also crave our own personal space. Though I need much less personal space when I’m around her. I’ve just always felt really at home with her. It’s almost as if she is my personal space. I’m really looking forward to these coming weeks. We’ll be like rockets taking off in slow-motion ambience.

Find mine fingre
dybt begravede i jorden
neglene sorte
og ikke af neglelak
find mig siddende
marken ligner stadig sig selv
uden dig her
kommer fuglene ikke længere
jeg har ikke brød med
jeg tog ikke vand med
gemt i kornene
du var aldrig høj nok
gemt når jeg dukker mig
det er her jeg går ud
når du skuffer mig

That poem is in no way resembling my mood right now.. sometimes words just form their own reality. I love stories. All my books are in Copenhagen. And I’m not. Not until Monday. I miss my books. My summer break has just started. I only have two exams, so there’s plenty of time to read. God I miss just getting lost inside a book. It’s been a while. I haven’t wanted to start on a book whilst moving. But I just bought a couple the other day. Man, I really crave some Kerouac right now. I think I will read Dharma Bums aloud for Rikke during the summer. She’ll love it.