FR7407 to Luton


I’m packing homemade flower remedies from mum, chocolates, artist brushes, glitter, herbal tea, 6 menthol lip balms. 

For the road my friend equips me with a tinfoil wrapped bread roll, an organic apple, a tiny box of raisins and November’s issue of Eurowoman with an article about being from a beautiful place but not feeling at ease there, and making home elsewhere.

I tear up as I bite the bun, sat in my blue and yellow Ryanair seat, already mid air. A girl in a tank top is riding on her mum’s shoulders on the commercial on the wall, the sun is shining, arms stretched out she looks like she is flying. To me now it looks like something that would be really hard to return to. I fumble for my head phones and blast a funkão carioca to remind myself why I chose that, and how it chose me too. Somewhere inside, my PC feminist scratches her head… But who has the time when the beat is this great? If you can’t twerk it sure aint my revolution.

 Tchau & Bjão Dina, vai se ver por aí!

Going home, and then coming back home again


I’d felt so homesick. And when I left the airplane and stepped into Kastrup airport tears started streaming from my face. I met my friend who was flying out two hours later and we talked about our futures and desires, just like I used to do with a natural assumption about them being infused with possibility and fulfillment.

The months of crushing disappointment, passportlessness, worry over paying the rent of a shared room in a shared flat, and fearful clinging on to the worst job I had in my life melted out of me, dripping from the plastic airport seats and unto the ground where, this being Denmark, surely someone would be paid a minimum wage of 90 DKK, having pension plan, 3 months dismissal notice and unemployment insurance, would come and clean it up with an ergonomic mop.

I turned my head from looking at my friend as I exhaled deeply, careful not not taint her radiant being with the despair I was finally able to let go of…

The city centre waited for me, free of people, open and bland. Nørreport station beautiful and shiny in its new white oval shapes, washed of the decades of pee and yeasty beer smell that used to ground it so firmly into the solitude carried by the residents of the street. There were nobody there, except for two unspoiled young guys with blond hair and delicate features on display through the new glass facades of the 7-11 shops.

How overwhelming are the silences of Copenhagen, so many of them. I wanted to go home.

Nørrebro received me with the same populousness silence as I cycled over Dronning Louises bro without battling other cyclists for the space, or needing to dodge any dogs or baby carriages. Tuesday 9pm, people where at home, I suppose. Mart and Alb’s flat in Rådmandsgade, two floors under where mine was. No place more familiar, a little table I once picked out from the neighbor’s trash and painted turquoise with a stylized pink uterus was now in their living room carrying books about photography.

As I sat across from Albus laughing and eating pasta I realized that my life wasn’t in this place anymore. So when I later went down to the basement to move my things out and into the basement of another friend, I decided to move on instead.I reduced the space I allowed for nostalgia to one box. The rest of my things I tied to the back of my bike with a scarf and made three runs to a second hand store to unload.

Three days later, deeply nourished by my mum’s TLC and the sureness and possibility I was fed by my friends I woke up 3am in my sleeping bag. I washed my face to wake myself up, and, as I left, whispered a silent goodbye to Rådmandsgade 40C, knowing I had been living there right up until now, and now I wouldn’t any more. I left the door unlocked behind me as I made it into the black streets anticipating the premature spring dawn.

My chest tight.

Until I arrived in Luthon, looked around me with my head open and drunk from sleepiness, and, surprised felt my ribcage expanding an extra inch and peace filtered from the air to my blood, and from my blood to my tissue.

Home, for now.

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“And now for something completely different..”


Whenever I get nauseous I look at my feet. That way I don’t see the ceiling right over my head or the sea of people blocking the narrow passageway in front of me and occupying the space of my theoretical escape route behind me. It took me 4 minutes to walk the 50 meters from one side of the platform to the other. Its not that its a very long time, or the energy of the crowd. Its the tiny underground space these four minutes and hundreds of people are crammed into. I look up to check which direction I’m going and feel dizzy. Feet, my feet. There are nobody here.

“Shhh” I press my ear against his chest to listen to the silence inside a giant vortex drawing everything in and under water. Things disappear in there to never resurface. I’m not sure if they drown or if they are just cushioned and held in this space. I’m not sure what the difference is either. So I close my eyes and plunge into those black, sweet waters. You ever only see the Moon and the Sun in the same sky for a short while, but they are always in love.

I slowly lower my body down to the floor, poking my bum up and pressing my elbows into my sides. Then slither forward to arch my back and look towards my anja chakra. My shoulders peel back and pull my heart open, I feel my whole body shining. without any effort I lift myself up again as I roll over the tips of my toes to press backwards. I am in child’s pose on my mat, in the international sunshine arts’ studio, on the floor, on the Earth. My teacher places her hands on my sacrum and helps me go deeper, I press out two drops of salty gratitude from my eyes.