Cheated by the opposite of love.














Water hangs from an outside chain link fence.
And I decided to be happy. content perhaps.
There’s been an unwillingness in my previous life.

Oslo. the hometown of the king.
And I sleep in a house of close by friends.
Cobblestone streets and a cappuccino.

I'm young. That’s what they keep telling me.
Although I hate to hear it.
"And these children that you spit on as they try to change their worlds are immune to your consultations. They’re quite aware of what they're going through." Bowie. Changes.

Even the pages turning seems loud tonight.
Searching my bag. one. and i panic.

a clove in Sweden.
a still night.
Just the sound of gravel and the door closing.
a tap dripping. a generator. a hair out of place.
ocd? only when I’m alone and it's this unrighteous loneliness.
a bed made with hospital corners and the smell of clean hair.

We took a drive around town in the rain.
Nothing was open to entertain us.
We listened to the radio for a while.
after too much discussion, we turned on Guns n' Roses and read the signs to lead us back to our beds.
a decision was made.
there is too much bread and cheese in this country.

... . . .. .......................... . . . .
lights in all the windows. illuminating small rooms.
and rows upon rows of paper trees.
........ . . ... . . .. ............... .......................................

The toxic smell of a perfume gallery.
White wine and waves.
Men in black rimmed glasses buying cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes.

Copenhagen.
The part of town where a strip joint is the norm and sex is being sold on the street.
Yet a pub is found where fashionable young women smoke cigarettes and apply lipstick at the table with a small compact mirror.
People are lining up now.
Two people are wearing yellow and waving towards the levee.
A man sits alone at a table in the smoking section, inhaling deeply and drinking a beer.

Now it's a small town of families and seniors in Germany.
The wind. and a song entitled twenty three.
A public phone in which a calling card is inserted.
No answer. not even a machine to speak to.
Finally the sun is out and a white ribbon flies.
The map is bent and my shoes are wearing thin.

Sarah harmer and travel. the two go well together.
East Germany is then reached.
There's something about being cold and hearing a native Russian say, "If we stick together we'll be strong" that makes the otherwise silence comfortable.

Eastblock. Where the women serve the men without question and it’s two rooms maximum.

I can't help but think that all things kitsch, including kitten wall hangings, embroidered lampshades, and lace curtains make anyone an unfit host.
I feel ungrateful and perhaps poorly received.
I was wrong. I often am.
She was a smoker, and he, an alcoholic.
I can see it in his cheeks.
Although the streets are quiet here, it smells altogether of plush lilac trees while cigarette smoke and urine waft through the streets.
The clock pounds beside me.
The wood is thin and poorly painted.
I see my grandmother in an old photograph.
I love the way the chest rises and falls while one sleeps.

Queen on the Autobonn.
A place where one sixty is no big deal.
The forests have clean grounds on the way to Berlin.

I wish I could step inside the forest as in a story.

I start to shake after a few drags.
Involuntarily.
I’m thinking about the way I see things.
And I think it’s in the way I look at scenes.
As if what I see is already a photograph in my mind before the picture is even taken.
Perhaps this is where my ideal of the beautiful comes in.
In photographs, unless the ugly is the object to be captured, it is cropped out.
Therefore, nothing unworthy of a picture should be gazed at longer than is needed to figure out how to take it out graciously.

It’s windy here in Berlin.
And the rain comes erratically. And without notice.
The relationships I desire are unreachable.
It’s time to get inside. It’s cold and he’s already asleep.
He tells me love gives us a higher tolerance for things. For people.
But I can’t speak with someone who’s half asleep.

Helmut Newton’s photo gallery exhibited all kinds of women, but the shadows and lights fashioned them fit to be looked at in a different way than those caught up in fluorescent lighting and teased hair.
Perhaps it’s the colour in general that sets the wrong atmosphere.

Next: a tribute to Amsterdam.