The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.