January
Show more 25 February 2008
Stranger than paradise
Monday at daybreak, parts of our plan had failed before it was set in motion.
Knowing this much too well, we boarded car number 3.
Auctioned tickets, much abliged.
We'd laughed about it, the point of the trip being lost, we'd make new points.
The jovial attendant, although reluctant to appreciate our bargain tickets, offered strong drinks despite the early hour.
Arriving, we traced piano keys laid out by no other than Arne Fredriksson, we'd see his signature at the bottom soon enough.
There it was.
Small point, but worth mentioning I figured.
Minor closure. We abandoned the subway station, reckoning it's a cultural graveyard, but in a good sense.
Stepping out, it's still bright. Was this it? What it's about?
I took a photograph of my foot and some cars, all dazzling in the afternoon sun.
In the sanctuary of some misplaced vegetation, I spied the kings residence across the water.
She knew.
I was obvious to her.
Crossing the bridge we came across scattered signs of Urban Recreation, the book presented to me by the greenhouse missionary months earlier.
"Hot and cold" I thought, we were close now. No, we were touching it, I could clearly feel it, vaguely see it.
Straying further along the sunny alleys we saw four chefs enjoying a pause, maybe just dishwashers.
Yes, hats, plenty of them. This was in another part of town, we had gone south, I said I had business there.
The place's called The Hat Bar, this was Humphrey Bogart's turf, Spade's, Charlie Chaplin's.
But this had little to do with business, this was something else... Intermezzo.
Much closer, a dirty garage, the smell of a saturday night engine, oily, holy smoke. Alas, not close enough.
No this was it. Again; closure.
Nothing at first, but then the telephone rang, shaking in my pocket, Mr Jensen hailing, chewing away like Tyler Durden on some payphone. Cheerful.
Following his directions we sat down next to Shiva, the air thick with incense.
As time passed, we had soon seen the last of the sunlight, from now on we'd see only streetlights on a pitch black panorama, a scent like sailors and diesel.
Admittedly, we were just as intruiged by it being a boat, as it being a cheap hostel.
Furthermore, the flamingo persuaded us.
Checked in to a small cabin below deck, and then continued ashore.
Our original intentions included a random face from a random magazine, but in this we saw opportunity.
And framed it.
There was music in the streets at night, something in the air that made me dance.
Eventually we dropped into a pub on some side street, had a beer, a cup of coffee.
Obscure stairs like Mt. Everest to foggy lungs, this, and the irrational iron hand on the pavement sealed this strange day.
Direct link:
http://dayviews.com/mouvitz/2008/2/25/
Visa toppen
Show footer