the western world is in an uproar and it’s an interesting time for an american to be in europe. it seems as though the two super-powers — assuming that the EU counts as one — are getting angrier at each other by the day. summing up the rage, from one side, is a polemic from the spectator (via mefi and worth reading, even if you don’t agree). others are trying to just calm everyone down.

is this just the hyper intellectuals shrieking at each other because that’s what they do best? are they out of touch with the man on the street? yet, wasn’t it the man on the street who shot holland’s openly-gay openly-rightist (do those cancel each other out? or was one or the other that made the man a target?) politician? if, as tinka told me yesterday, september 11 isn’t what sparked this craziness in europe, what did?

at the risk of sounding cold blooded, i appreciate the complexity of the situation. from a writer’s perspective, it makes for good narrative. so many different motives, no easy answers. the killer, apparently, was a white male with a shaved head. nowadays, who the hell knows that what means.

also interesting, though more specific to the u.s.: an examination of the textures of the left (via arts and letters)

(krissy: “ester, don’t you have class right now?” sometimes the world[wideweb] is too damn fascinating.)

today i met tinka and lived. it was unreservedly beautiful out and i basked, bare-armed, in the sun, ten minutes early to our assigned meeting place, with some half-formed notion of spotting her first. of course as soon as i let my guard down, i heard someone greet me by name. crushing: i was hoping the hairdye would serve as something of a disguise (“oh yeah,” she deadpanned, “you look like an entirely different person.”)

within minutes she’d taken me somewhere i’d never been, a lovely spot of hills and trees orbiting a lake. i got used to her british accent and we discussed politics and dogs and the whole blogging thing until the day grew less friendly and the drunks more loud. she claimed to be an atypical dane, which is vexing: i’ve had two Conversations with natives, neither of whom views him/herself as normal. well, where are the typical danes then? … oh right. jutland.

anyway, it was certainly a pleasant way to spend an afternoon in “meat space”, as my criminal justice guest-lecturer dubbed the non-worldwideweb-world.

i’m also wearing a thong today, an interesting first experience via heather, who bought andrea and me sets to match one she already had. as ilana put it, indisputably, “you don’t scream THONG.” heather knew that too, of course, which was one of the reasons she chose them as presents. while i admire that shrewdness on heather’s part, i’m not sold on the physical reality of the thing. it makes me more conscious than i like to be of my posterior with which, up til now, i’ve had a cautious, distant relationship. like with a prison pen-pal.

and does anyone have any suggestions, dammit, as to what i should read next?

temperance paid off yesterday as the more i did nothing, the more my health improved. if i were mathematically inclined i could chart that. i spent most of the day in fuzzy slippers, at one point recognizing a kindred spirit, similarly shod, coughing my cough, in a fellow DISer a hall(a)way. i talked to my parents, who insisted on both being on the line at the same time, and read some blixen stories, including babette’s feast, quite confused on how anyone could make that into a movie.

anne called, inquired after my well-being, and i made the decision to attempt Chai and Dye: Part Deux. because when one’s eyes and nose are red, shouldn’t one’s hair match? she skipped on over and we dove in, ruining 2 cheap dish-towels we’d bought for the occasion (“when i was done, the towel didn’t look like no goddamned maxi-pad!”). it hadn’t occurred to me that i would be doing her hair but she coached me through it, and once more suitemate sapna walked in on me playing salonista. more successfully, might i add, although perhaps it’s just easier to dye than snip.

so now i’m more burnt-sienna than i was. in this state, i’m set to meet the webmistress herself this afternoon on the steps of city hall. she’s confident she’ll know me on sight. honor of honors, i also received an email invitation to join the copenhagen bloggers coffee and beer consumption consortium (did i get that right?) in some (what else?) coffee and beer. unfortunately i’ll be in spain but my eyes grew moist and i rested a hand on a heart in the pure joy of inclusion and acceptance. even the theoretical kind.

just my luck: yesterday evening, while i was reading anne’s tarot cards as compensation for her having brought me home, the phone rang. karen, my soon-to-be supervisor, in copenhagen as planned, wanted to know if i could meet for a pleasant sunday city lunch. my half-voice spoke for me. alarmed, she said, don’t push yourself, it’s not crucial. i really wanted to meet her, so we compromised: she’d call at 9:30 the next morning. if i was better we’d make a go of it. if not, we’d wait til i’m back in dc.

groaning, i returned to anne and finished the spread. we’d been drinking tea and i’d made my way through two bowls of oatmeal for strength. then i bid her adieu. being the lovely resourceful young woman she is, she rigged up curtains for me, on the assumption that my lack of sleep was less sadism and more sunlight, the which crashes through my wall of windows directly opposite my bed. one forgets that just because it’s not warm that doesn’t mean the sun ain’t shining. and at full wattage by 8 a.m., so even a cloudy sky glows like a bulb.

but though i nyquiled myself into slumber, i woke feeling possibly more miserable than before. karen called again. there was no hiding it. with promises to convene back home, we hung up. i drowned my sorrows in more nyquil and slept til 2.

now actually i feel half all-right. i’m tempted to go back to dis and watch more riget — we got through 3 episodes yesterday before i more or less collapsed. i’m not sure i should chance it. being well for barcelona is vastly more important.

as expected, i have no voice to speak of (heh heh.) i can’t believe my body held off the harsh, insistent copenhagen cold for three months only to finally succumb come may. the concert was the catalyst but i knew i’d been heading towards this point for days. i recognized the signs. and this morning i arrived in full-blown nose-blowing mode. welcome to ill, population: 1: you.

when i’m sick, there’s no hiding it. i wake up looking like roadkill. by noon my condition is visibly upgraded from Cross the Street and Hold your Nose to Extend Pity and Offer Tea. by night i’m back to something you want to kick back to the gutter.

i get along as best i can, doing things that don’t involve talking. this morning after six hours of sleep (what sadistic impulse in me refuses me a deep, dreamless eight?) i curled up and finished smilla, the character of which i liked more than the story. now i’m at DIS about to watch riget, van trier’s creepy series. if i can hold myself up, tonite’ll be chai and dye w/ anne.

… yeah, like it was even a decision.

first i found out i got my intership. which means i have two jobs for the summer, either of which by itself would be worthy of cheering. but both! my lord —

then, the concert. katie and andrea switched gears and we all bussed over, marveling at the room as we entered, slightly bigger than the 9:30 club in d.c., loosely filled with more lovely lesbians than i’ve seen in one place since Mothertongue. couples everywhere, hands lingering in short hair; beer, cigarettes; everyone smiling; not a single bare midriff or pair of high heels to be found. but men too (this is why europe is cooler than america): men with women, men with men. and some people whose gender you can’t tell by looking which fills me with joy. we take places in the second row, slightly to the right of the microphones.

first three people come onstage as though straight out of a soap opera. petite, earnest-faced blonde woman, dressed in black; a man like those seen on the prows of ships, bulging and protruding every which way yet curved incongruously over a delicate electric violin (you don’t get muscles like that playing the violin!); and a third, darker, smaller man in back on the keyboard. charming scottish accents, ballads crooned. rocky switches his violin for an equally fragile instrument and we continue to watch him with astonishment. a diamond twinkles on the lady’s left hand.

twenty minutes after they leave, just when andrea announces, “i’m bored!,” they come on. i’ve never seen them live but i recognize them from pictures: emily, full and blonde, pleasant-faced sharp-eyed; amy, hunched, mousy hair, eyes lost since squinted away. each holds one guitar. it’s a sign: it’s a back-to-basics kind of night. which means:

least complicated/ power of two/ three hits/ land of canaan/ galileo/ closer to fine/ go go go/ shame on you/ mystery/ chickenman/ cold beer and remote control

not in that order, of course; and others i’m sure i’m forgetting; and interspersed with old-skool sounding songs from their latest album. nostalgia stands behind me the entire time, poking me in the ribs, especially during mystery. by the end i’m bruised and dazed, and we troop out, though my voice refuses to come with me and remains shiny-eyed and sighing where i flung it on the stage.

HAVING been to tivoli once before (with jamie, two years ago) and having been to an indigo girls concert, despite having a long-standing sentimental attachment [particularly] to their early works;

and SEEING as it’s rained for 85% of today and shows no signs of remission;

SHOULD I go, as planned, to the amusement park OR

to the indigo girls conert?

there’s more than one answer to these questions/ pointing me in a crooked line…

i like this guy. he’s precisely the representation of what i imagine u. chicago to be. my dad went there and tells affectionately nostalgic stories like how his brilliant roommate would stand on a chair, blast symphonies, and conduct in his underwear. he (alex, or alex-as-self-represented-online) also reminds me a little of johnny.

while i’m at it, i’ve also been reading malpractice pretty regularly and denniskim. but i haven’t really decided what my criteria for linking should be; i think too much and every once in a while i get shy about it. what is linking exactly? the equivalent of buying stock in a person, or painting their doorpost with blood, or reccommending a film? speaking of which, gwtw is showing at the dfi and i’m torn: forego melodramatic revisionist/racist claptrap, or go, prepared to revel in o. selznick sentiment on the big screen for the first time?

and speaking of which again, jean m. auel, i see, has finally released the long-awaited sequel x4 to Clan of the Cave Bear. oh when i was young and didn’t know better, the books i read (and read and read, cuz in my book, anything worth reading was worth chewing like cud). i plead a nascent fascination with anthropology. back then, i was impressed partly because i assumed they were true.

i should make horror movies. i know exactly what to do. having lived near-20 years as a jumpy and over-imaginative nervous female is excellent preparation. what’s scariest, just as what’s funniest, is incongruity. what you don’t expect: the face behind yours in the mirror. the figure in the chair in the corner. the unsmiling child. men in bear suits. men in bunny suits. in a pinch just men will do. especially in alleys.

i burst out of a nightmare at 3:45 this morning. as i watched the blue outside my window grow more and more vivid, to a soundtrack of birdsong, three notes on repeat, i reflected that i’ve never noticed sunrise or -set in this country. why is that? smilla kept me company for a long hour before i could finally drift off again, til 8:30 — time to drag myself back to DIS and finish this paper. joy of joys, it’s done, and i have a whole day of stresslessness to enjoy.

also: a reminder of why i love my skool after all. matt rubin, the spokesperson of the fascists, incidentally, is our dearly-beloved student body president, and a personal friend. i wrote one of my favorite poems with him on my lap and he gave me the only compliment i’ve ever had to look up in the dictionary. all hail, ruby.

anyone have any wisdom about bulgaria? cuz now’s the time to share it.

perhaps because i kept thinking “both! both!” yesterday evening, when stressing about Job, i dreamt last nite i was a hermaphrodite. it was a passing condition, and there was much more to the dream, including a troop of little girls staring at me as though they’d been betrayed and something about donuts.

having spent nine straight hours staring at this computer, i feel as surreal now as i did waking up. it bears mentioning that despite the physical differences inherent to my hermaphroditic state, emotionally i could detect no change. i wonder whether that means my mind isn’t particularly gendered, or that i’m not capable — even in dreams — of knowing how i would think if i were [half] male.