Food hall, street food
Monday September 11th 2017, 1:11 pm
Filed under: libraries,myjobfuckingrocks,something new Tags:

“Copenhagen Street Food,” it said on the map. Clearly a ridiculous place, I thought, and well worth avoiding. But the guide on the first-ever-tourist-boat-I’ve-ever-fucking-taken-don’t-judge-me-you-try-traveling-with-a-two-year-old suggested it had a good vibe, and the bodies were packed (on the admittedly unusual sunny day we managed for said boat). Cue happiness, in the form of duck-and-fries and a fine dark ale. Go there. Eat well. Be warm and festive.

The “treasures” exhibit was empty. I hadn’t really thought through it – Marina Abramović’s “Treasures” at the Royal Library. I’ve worked my manuscript mojo there, and done the doing that needed doing to make this trip the done thing. After handing my watch and my phone (“Marina wants you to be outside of time”), and taking the key, and then using the second key for a cubby hole for my boots (“Marina wants you to be comfortable”), I went in…..and it was empty. Me, headphones, voices in my ears, and the treasures of the Danish Royal Library. Saxo Grammatico, the Inca conquest book, Maimonides and Gregory of Tours, Soren K. and Ghandi, Tycho Brahe and Linnaeus, Mozart and Audubon, some sagas and some other shit. Apparently a timer rings after 80 minutes, but I was keenly aware that I had to get back to YCT and small. As luxurious as it was to just listen. But it made it clear how much of a premium time is. All those thoughts, all those journals, all those years traveling and hunting authentic local spots for a beer, and a book, and a corner to write in my black journals – an abundance, a hyper-abundance, an embarrassment of time (a murder of crows). I listened. I sat on the chairs, climbed on the elevated bunkbeds, farted loudly and scratched my feet through the holes in my socks. And eyed the 7th century Gregory, the 12th century bible, the 13th century Jewish philosopher, the 19th century large printed books, the intimate letters from Soren K. to whomever (5 degrees from the Nippel somethingorrather bridge (which I’ve crossed daily since arriving) through a spyglass) and H.C. Andersen (his ardent but restrained passions undone slightly by this weekend’s Guardian article featuring letters in which Dickens declared him a bore). Dunno. YCT, small, totally new city. Time together, time lived in the present without the extra time to meta-present, to reflect. A few more days, remarkably, followed by another country/city, even more remarkably.

More art. More gray. More time.


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