i’ve been having consistent flashbacks to my four months in copenhagen as of late. no matter what i’m doing, whether it’s cutting vegetables, or editing stories, or taking photographs, i’ll suddenly think of random moments in europe: drinking fresh mint tea in amsterdam, or wandering along the graffiti-ed streets of nørrebro in copenhagen, or visiting contemporary art museums in prague. being away from europe is like a tic: it never goes away, no matter how i try to calm it. i don’t even really know how to explain this feeling to other people. europe is in my blood, it’s in my roots, and it’s in the way i live my day-to-day life.
too bad i’m stuck in the hell-hole of greencastle, indiana for another year.
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. then I put him back, but he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you? -Charles Bukowski