Speak to me in a language I can hear

Yesterday, on Randersgade, the Google Maps car drove past me. I’m fairly certain I’ll be one of the blurry people in the street’s photo montage because the large, multi-camera apparatus on top of the compact flashed in my direction a few times after stopping past me at an intersection. Then it slowly turned and made its way down an alley. Wait approximately five weeks, then look closely for the gaping girl fumbling with her camera phone.

Sick: A Compilation Zine on Physical Illness is out now from Microcosm. I have an essay in it titled “Clearing head: A story about migraines” – a title I cribbed from my own blog, despite disliking that method of archive and reuse. Mostly, I’ve kicked the migraine habit. Of course, today I woke up with a headache. Go figure.

No one here can make plans between the beginning of July and the end of August. Such is the state of things when everyone gets a minimum of three weeks vacation and most get six.

“Why would anyone be mad at Anders Fogh?”
“Well, we don’t have Bush; we have this articulate man who no one agrees with.”

The summers almost make up for the dreadful winters. The longest day of the year was three days ago, with ten hours and thirty-three minutes more sunlight than the shortest. Last Saturday, we rode fifteen kilometers on our bicycles. On the way downtown, we passed a protest at the Iranian embassy and met some snails. Seems pretty easy to me to keep the passion alive. Of course, if none of that sounds sexy to you, I guess you don’t have what I have.

Language sprints start on Monday. ThreeTwo weeks to break through one module and finish testing. They seem to have put me in the smart kids class. I suppose I should be thankful for the backhanded, nonverbal compliment.

Last night, we celebrated Sankt Hans with bonfires on the beach and ice cream at Bakken. I’m fairly certain these global traditions of burning witches have something to do with supporting patriarchy. A friend said that this should serve as a reminder of “how things were,” but you still never hear about anyone “burning the warlocks.” Call me pessimistic – especially since I call myself the same – but I’m not convinced much has changed.