The Darkness of Denmark

I'm sitting here at 4.18pm watching the sun go down.  Yesterday, Tobias and I hosted a huge family gathering out here at our summer house and I wondered aloud, "What do you Danes DO with yourselves for the three months out of the year when the light shines little to never?"

I was hoping for answers like, "We spend our time telling tall tales of northern trolls and Viking heroes of yore."  or "Carving toys for village children."

What I got was a range from, "It's the opposite in my soul, as in, it comes awake in the winter." to "I don't remember."

The leaves have all mostly fallen from the trees and I have the fire burning pretty much constantly and I have to admit, it's pretty cozy.  It reminds me also, that the Seasonal Affective Disorder that plagues a large majority of Pacific Northwesterners, is probably childs' play compared to the deepening dark of Scandinavia.

In response to this, I have several photos of the early Fall which demonstrate both light and color. And castles, because let's face it. Castles should be hunted down and photographed with all the glee that a foreigner can muster. Behold. Glee.

We also discovered Hamlet's Grave, which, the sign was kind enough to inform us, was likely not where Hamlet was burried, but WAS an important burial mound for some kind of Danish royalty, so we should be satisfied with that. Talk about marketing genius.

Another Fall highlight has been meeting a very nice and frisky Icelandic pony named "something Icelandic".  Here she is in all her shaggy glory. 

Volunteering, Fall Food, and Pooping In The Woods

It has now been four months since I landed in Copenhagen without a clue as to what I was doing in Denmark besides following a hot Dane I'd met on the Camino, home. 

In that time, I have lived on a sailboat, walked the length of the country dressed as a Medieval Pilgrim, learned enough Danish to get arrested, and become engaged.  I have also applied for a greencard to stay, which, contrary to the Danish Immigration website, is taking decidedly longer than 1-3 months to process. 

All of this adds up to the topics for today's post.  Namely, what to do when you can't legally work, live in a summer house in the Field of Thor and are watching the days get shorter by 3 minutes every day. That's 21 minutes less day light every week.  Only counting sunset.  Count sunrise getting later and it's almost 40 minutes less daylight every week.

So volunteering instead of getting a job.  It's good for the soul, bad for the pocketbook, but potentially a lifesaver if you aren't a Facebook addict or have already watched through every episode of Glee, Revenge and Once Upon A Time.  This explains why I am torn, as I have done all of the latter but am totally Facebook Happy.  

Needless to say, I did some research after a conversation with Tobias about how Denmark doesn't seem to be much of a volunteering country...and found out that we were both wrong.  According to THE website on Denmark, 43% of Danes volunteer at least once a year. This is chalked up to the fact that they have a socialist minded society and this involves great social trust, so they are therefore more inclined to give their time to organizations that facilitate a smooth and harmonious society.

Americans on the otherhand, apparently have a 26% percent volunteer rate.  In these stormy election times, many news commentators in the States have made it clear that our current president is suspect for having socialist sympathies...and also for wanting to raise taxes to help build a stronger infrastucture for social services.  Just a random thought, but volunteering might be a good option for unemployed Americans to both help themselves and help their country.  But of course, we're not socialist, so that should make up for the missing 18% percent.

I'm riding on that philosophy as justification for not having found a suitable volunteering position yet, along with the fact that we live in Thorsager, which is so far out in the country that we have a septic tank instead of city sewer. 





This means, that when it becomes full and the Septic Wizards are preparing for their sojourn to the country, we get to poop in the woods.

Our current reality is comprised of such wilderness exoduses and the bathroom slowly starting to smell like a Rest Stop Loo despite my liberal use of cleaning products and air sanitizers.  We just happened to luck out because we can't see any of our neighbors from our house/woods.  Civilized as Denmark is, there are still fantastic opportunities to rough it and then make a nice martini from the contents of your refridgerator.

Or, in this case, to embark on a processional of curries and soups for the fall, which make it more likely than ever that you'll get to experience the joys of a nice Vindaloo and then a quick trot into the trees. 







Fall is obviously a wetter and drearier time of year which stubbornly clings to an optimism that trickles through falling leaves in the form of magical sunlight.

Hence, Tobias and I decided that we should have food which highlights the magical sunlight.  We've spiced our way through Vindaloo, Korma, Tom Kha Gai, Chicken Noodle, Chili, and Vegetable Glory.  We've made it a priority to include rice in every meal. It has been delicious. 








The toilet is coughing and gasping now. Apparently the Toilet Man has shown up like an angel of goodwill, summoned by the power of this blog.  I will have a look outside.

Yes, there he is, with the word Kloakservice emblazoned on the side of his truck.  I I seem to remember a part of the colon called the cloaca from high school biology.  Tobias, via Skype has assured me that it means sewer which I guess makes sense. 

The toilet has now turned into a vaccuum nexus to another world, spewing forth its wroth on unsuspecting spectators.  I now understand why some children are totally freaked out by the thought of getting sucked into drains.  Or their country loo.  The house also smells like something died a looong time ago.

So you see, life in Denmark is both cultured and primal, in hole and out hole, summer and winter.  You should all visit and be as entralled as I have been.

North, to Vendsyssel!

Alright. It's been 21 days since the last installment of Danish Diversions.
Fear not, I have been busy building fires, writing stories and watching the weather change from sunny to decidedly more precipitous. 

Also, I have started ballroom dancing and taking trips to the northern white sandy beaches of Denmark in the region known as Vendsyssel.  Fifty cookies for anyone who can pronounce this, who is NOT from Denmark.



Now, as you can see, the beach was blustery and full of concrete structures, which it turns out, were built by the Germans in WWII.  Conveniently, after the war, the sand bluffs that they had been built into decided to molt.  Now the western beaches are filled with these beached concrete whales of war that people grafitti and paint gold. 





I think they'd make great stages for little performance art peices.  The empty spaces left by the huge guns, like where the mural is painted behind me, have plenty of space for prancing about.




















 On our way along the beach, I also had a chance to heroically carry Tobias across a RAGING RIVER OF DEATH (twice), as he had not thought to purchase red rain boots like I had. 



















I would also like to note that this is the land of Tobi's childhood so we hunted down his forrest and magical lake that he used to play Robin Hood and Pioneers in.  (Though not necessarily at the same time.)

To celebrate our very successful day of Northing, we ate seafood and I found a salt water prince masquerading in the form of a crayfish.  He did not escape transformation. Lucky me.

Stay tuned for stories about the soups and curries of fall, which are not remotely Danish, but happen here, so are therefore, relevant.

The Barking Deer of Denmark

The morning started off calm and serene...me with my cup of tea, a nice long meditation, then gazing out my window into the lush Danish foliage.  Everything was tranquil as the sun came filtering gently through the beech leaves. 

A deer came bounding from left to right, graceful and lithe as it leapt in front of the porch ...and began to bark like an angry Rottweiler.

It did not stop to chat or explain itself, merely kept barking alarmingly as it sailed past the deck and crashed into the woods, yarking at the top of its lungs.

Yes, I said the deer barked.  Like this guy at around 1.17

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EWzg4eiJnM

Everything in my brain was on hyper alert.

Stimulus recorder:  Deer! Barking!

Command Central: Deer do not bark.  Repeat, recalculate input.

Stimulus recorder: Deer! Still! Barking! Bark! Bark!

Command Central: Impossible. Deer are mute.

Stimulus recorder:  Negative.  Sounds emerge from deer. Bark. 

Command Central: WTF.

So there I was, tranquility shattered, furiously searching the interwebs with queries to the following:

deer+barking
deer+sounds+Denmark
deer+wounded+bark
DEER+BARKED+WHAT!

Nothing useful was coming up.  Deer grunt, they sigh, they cry, but apparently, they do not bark. 



So I went to youtube and found our above fearlessly barking deer.  But my deer had no horns.  My deer was just your average run of the mill, unpronged deer.  I decided to consult the expert searchers and immediately Skyped Tobi at work.

Jaime: Whatever you are doing now, drop it.  I have an emergency
Tobias: What is it baby!
Jaime: A deer just ran by the window barking and I have no idea what it means.
Tobias: ?
Jaime: Yes.
Tobias: The deer BARKED?
Jaime: That's what I'm saying, but none of my searches are coming up with anything GOOD.
Tobias. Woah.

In his wisdom and years of interwebery magic, and Danish fluency, he was back in five. 

Tobias: Deer bark when they are afraid or excited.
Jaime:  Excited?
Tobias: Yeah. You know.
Jaime: Oh. I don't think it was excited.
Tobias: Is it still barking?

The thing had continued to sound like it was ralphing up its guts in canine fashion for a good five minutes after flashing through my yard. Then it stopped.   Five minutes after that, as I was catching my breath and wits, a bird came flying as fast as it could right into the huge picture window and bounced off in a cloud of feathers.

There was no body to be found.  I'm pretty sure the Danish wildlife may be insane. Or excited.  Either way, watch out.  Deer have been holding out on us.

Danish Stomach Flu and other fun summer activities

I have been remarkably healthy these last five months.  No coughs, no runny noses, nothing even remotely exciting from the Stay-Home-Sick pantheon.  So I'll admit, I got a little cocky.

When Tobias came home on Friday feeling 'real tired', I stepped up and nursed that sick man and his man flu the whole dang weekend, confident in the knowledge that I would not contract his affliction.

It seemed fairly terrible as he vascillated between no appetite (the man usually eats half a cow without blinking), dizzyness that made him break into cold sweats, and mind crushing headaches...to say nothing of the distress happening down under. 

Never mind that, I felt strong and immune ready to field any bugs he might throw at me. 

He left on Sunday for business and I felt fine.  Monday I staggered a bit and decided to lay low, just to err on the side of avoiding the worst of it. Tuesday was pristine and seemed to be proof that I had mastered time, space and the man flu without feeling like warmed death.

And then Wednesday struck.  I awoke feeling like a burbling brook.  In my guts.  Strange.  But oh Nelly.

As the day progressed, the hours grew longer and more agonizing as my lust for food disappeared and even water started looking suspicious.  Still, I knew I had to eat and drink to replace lost fluids so I alternated between moaning on the couch, shuffling to the loo, trying to watch films, and refilling my water glass.

After a very, very long night which included me sitting in the hot shower for at least half an hour...around 3 am trying to cure my headache, I decided to try some more water, and a grapefruit.  I have since discovered why appetite is one of the first things to go.

Anytime I eat something, it makes my guts start howling again. We're talking three part harmony.  It's unstoppable.  So, here I am, in bed, at noon thirty on Thursday, writing this epistle and contemplating another stumble to the bathroom before I attempt to sleep still more.  All the same, I might kill for some chicken soup right now, but the store is far away, I'm on foot, and it's likely my bum would explode if I attempted such a pilgrimage.  This is a good and worthy challenge around being present and not judging myself or the situation. Let's hear it for soul growth opportunities.

In the meantime, I can recommend some fantastic summer films if anyone is similarly inclined.   

Guess WHAT!

Yes, that's a unicorn. On that finger.

I had jokingly said to Tobias that if I were to ever get married, I wanted a unicorn engagement ring. 

When Tobias took a knee in front of his father's commune, I of course said yes. He put a curled chili pepper on my finger that he had grown from a seed.  Unicorns are apparently very difficult to locate in ring form and must be imported which takes more time than he felt he had. He didn't want me to beat him to the punch, being a liberated and outspoken woman as I am ;)  Unbeknownst to him, I was quite prepared to wait :)

I asked if we could get a simple silver something instead of a huge unicorn rock and give the rest to Make A Wish so the 5,000 dollar goal would be reached and we could let our adventure be yet another catalyst for making magic in the world.  He of course, said yes.

What a beautiful man.  What a magical ring! 

The artist's job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence."

I'll be the first to admit that Woody Allen has been more than a little controversial in his tastes and moral inclinations, but I could easily justify carrying his children for being such an accessible and down-right blue collar type of artist. 

Watch Midnight In Paris by Woody Allen.  Then watch the recent documentary on his life.  Actually, maybe watch the doc first because it begs the follow up of devouring the rest of his films. 

Here is a man who, for lack of some austere monk like devotion to conversion ephiphany of creating the "perfect" peice of art, has consistently made film after film for years because that is what he does. 

He says in the documentary something to the effect of, "I don't worry about whether a film will be great or not, I just figure, if I keep making them, I'll get it right sooner or later." 

All I am saying is that if one has the desire to create or paint or tell stories or dance, one should do it and leave quality to the critics.  It is only in the tango of creation that antidotes can be found, that new improvisations come out which may hold a cure for the "emptiness of existence." 

The truly beautiful aspect of this quote (From Midnight In Paris) is that emptiness is a philosophical concept, which, in its very existence, takes up space.  As modern quantum physics tells us, there is space between everything, even things that feel solid.  So space then, or emptiness, is actually the substance that makes up everything...and finding a way to play with all that space, is possibly, why so few dare to call themselves artists.  It's a big notion, being a kid in a sandbox with a brush or a keyboard as your shovel as you attempt to build castles out of galaxies of sheer space. 

Where do you even start?

You pick up your tool and start to push ideas around.  You add a little water and time and keep mushing things together in ways that please YOU.  You laugh. You holler.  You stay up all night and keep playing in your galactic emptiness with all the joy and passion and hope you can dream up.

So thank you Woody Allen, for reminding me that we combat despair by providing alternatives.  They may all be different strains of the same spaciousness, but we can craft new flavors and shades to color our days.

Capitalism vs. Socialism-A Danish Metaphor

This morning I was gazing out the window of the summer house around 9.12am.  Two happy birds were bouncing joyfully about the grass ripping up worms at a leisurely pace...like one would enjoy a fine cigar. 

Something deep in my subconscious sat up and howled.  I checked the time again. 9.13am.  Looked out the window.  Yep, worms in the mouths of birds.  No one seemed particularly sleepy or concerned.
THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE WORM.

huh? god is that you?

the EARLY BIRD gets the WORM!!!!


9.14am.  Birds gobbling worms. Nope. That isn't true in this reality. 

WHY!!

All of a sudden I realized, "I am in Denmark. Land of 52 weeks paid maternity leave.  Land of healthcare for all.  Land of well fed birds at anytime of the day."

Then it became clear.  The difference between capitalism and socialism is that in capitalism you starve if you don't get up before 7am to rut in the dirt in the dark because the government would rather listen to themselves chirp than make sure that all the worms are evenly distributed amongst the locations and times that people may be out and about to hunt them. 

Though it seems alien to look out the window now at 11.38am and still see the happy grazing going on, I believe that is why people travel and enjoy using the word exotic.  The difference is rather charming.

Don't Park Too Close to Old Danes

Tobias and I are staying in a friend's flat while we nail down some more permanent digs.  It is a nice basement apartment in the center of Aarhus, right next to the university.  There are grand villas and cozy gardens all along Emil Aarstrups Vej that smack of old money and the hyggeligt glory that obessesses the Danish psyche. Hyggelight, for those who are in the dark, is pronounced HUE/HOO-guh-lee and means, very simply "fucking cozy as shit".  That's really cozy.

Cars line the sidewalks and people push strollers up and down at a leisurely pace.  It was a perfect afternoon to go to the store and then clean out the car.  I got in the car and drove it away from the space it had occupied for less than 24 hours. 

The shopping trip was a rousing success and I even got a chance to politely refuse to be signed up for some shopper program, in Danish. "Nej, tak." High on the fumes of my Danish mastery, I returned home and parked close to the rubbish container.  The car is a disaster due to our numerous moves and generally small inhabitations. 

My astrology reading playing in my ears, I happily started throwing crap around and an organizational free-for-all.  It wasn't five minutes later, that I spied an old man creaking towards me. He appeared to be talking in my general direction. I took out my ear phone.  He was definitely talking.  At me.

Well, I was so pleased with myself that I just tried to understand what he was saying without my customary, "Undskyld, jeg taler englsk."  ...I'm sorry, I speak English.  I defaulted quickly to my normal phrase as it seemed like he had a very important message he was trying to convey.

"Where are you from?"

Smile from me. Be charming.

"The USA, from Portland, Oregon."

"Oh no."

um.  smile again. be nice.

"Yep, sure am."

"You are living in the basement."

"Yes, we are staying in a friend's flat while we look for another place to live."

No change in facial expression on his part. Just stares.

"I have a Danish boyfriend."

He shakes his head at me.

"You're a bad woman."

Sorry? Did I just hear that right? Ok, I'm a bad woman. Always agree. First rule of improv.

"Well, I can't help it. They are very nice you know."

He smirks.

"You need to park not so close to me when you drive this car.  It is no good."

Was I close to him? I can't even remember.





"Oh god. I'm really sorry.  I will definitely park further away. Could you not get out?"

He laughs.

"It is just lucky I am a nice one. Some others will not like that parking so much."

"Ok. Wow. Well, thanks for telling me."

He stands there and looks at me like I've lost my marbles.  Several seconds pass awkwardly.

"You keep doing what you are doing now."

Yes. I am cleaning out the car. Good idea. Is that goodbye?

"Alright, have a good day."  Smile again. Nice Jaime. Nice Dane.

Dane looks at me oddly and walks to his car.

There was no one in front of his car when I parked behind it on Sunday. There was still nothing except a tiny lip where a tiny driveway connected house to street.

But hey, sometimes it's the little things that make a big difference right?

As he drove by me I waved.
He stared straight ahead.

My astrologer was saying at that moment, "Relationship are really your joy in life."

Hehehehe. Yep. They sure are. 

For we are not constrained by the fame of our deeds, or the limits of our bodies, but rather by our capacity to dream, to imagine, to grow rich within and with that capital, ignite our world...

Unicorns on the Hærvejen

It was Day 8 or so on our Authentic Pilgrims On The Hærvejen trip.  We had just finished our humble lunch of strawberries and cheese in the hamlet of Vrads, lured by signs of meditation centers and organic butter.  With our bellies full and no available houses to rent in this community of artists and Masser oven builders, we decided to push on.

We walked past a young Dane shooting a longbow in a field and I waved.  He pretended not to notice us even though we were wearing the outfits which would have perfectly complimented his sport.  Never mind that though, soon we were upon the Meditation Center and started talking excitedly about the possibilities of retreats.

Cars whizzed passed us, people on bicycles stared or smiled or both, it was a typical day on our 300km trek.

UNTIL.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, across the road and in the forest, I saw it.  I could not believe my eyes and went crashing across the tarmac, hauling Tobias along with me to document the clear PROOF.

I felt like the Jane Goodall of mythological creatures.  The documentary would be called, *Myths In The Mist*

It was everything I could do to maintain professional objectivity, but in the end, I think you will all agree that I composed myself quite well in the face of this monumental discovery.

Standing there silently, not 5 meters from me, trying to disguise himself as a tree stump, was the Mystical Unicorn.

Let your eyes show you what your heart cannot comprehend.

Oh the majesty.

Cast of Characters

It's time to get to know some of the characters of The Begining of El Camino...get in a cozy chair and walk backwards in time down the Camino with me to Logrono...city of cafe's and pinchos and narrow streets.  Also, Papi Chulo, Alessea, Ulrik, David, and Ima, who had already left for home when this photo was taken.  

Papi Chulo was a doctor from Italy.  He carried a backpack that was more of a portable pharmacy than ruksack and wore all red, all the time.  PC was fond of showing us hand signs that meant, "You asshole, your wife is sleeping with another man."  He could also drink any of us under the table with a smile on his face, which is probably why he has that knowing and whimsical look in this photo.

Alessea was his long suffering and extremely tall, daughter.  She loved the equality of everyone on the Camino and was always prepared to let Papi Chulo indulge in his childlike wanderlust and demanding desires.  Her usual facial expression was one of bemused tolerance. She called her father Eduardo. She loved her job as an HR manager and general over-lordess and you could tell that everyone liked her right back.

David, the caballero sin caballo, never knew what he wanted if he could have anything and was fond of calling me 'una mystica'.  He loved Cataluna with all the passion his heart could muster and would spend hours talking about Barca and football with Ulrik. David was full of witty spanish one liners like, "Chulo chulo, mi pidulo" which roughly means, "Cool, cool, my dick."  

He and Ima were our fearless guides and translators for the first week until they and PC and Alessea had to leave at the end of Semana Santa.  David would occasionally wear his boxers on his head in the Albergues and liked to run marathons, but thought he was out of shape.

He loved Ulrik and Ulrik loved him. They were like a pair of best dog buddies who you knew would rip up chickens together and run to the ends of the earth howling with glee.

Ulrik, whom you have met before, Danish folk singer and attache from day 2 in Zubiri, was clearly not from this planet.  He was fond of playing his tiny guitarlele and gazing dreamily and lovingly at whatever his eyes beheld.  Though from Roskilde, he spoke English like an American and had a passionate adoration of the clawhammer banjo,  Hank Williams III, whom he called Hank III, and teaching me swear words in Danish like, "Run for fuck's sake, bitch".  He would move his mouth very slowly and precisely to show me how to say hard Danish words like Rød, and never acted like he was 22.  

He also developed a strange and troubling skin affliction on his hands that lasted the entire Camino.  He took cortisone from Papi Chulo, rubbed iodine on them, tried benadryl and anything else people might suggest.  No one knew he had chillblains until a couple days before the end of the trail.  He refused to see a doctor right up to the end.  He may have been from Jupiter.

And then there was Ima, mother to all and eternally young beauty.  At 37, all she had to do really, was just smile and make us all fall in love with her a little more. However, she never rested on her youthful laurels.  She was fond of making sure we were all ok, seeing the sights, and telling stories about our lives.  She lived in Tortossa and was a teacher who travelled the world in the summers, visiting places like Nepal and Africa. She communicated in the universal language of love.  Full stop.

There was Hanne the Dane whom everyone called Hannah Montana, and I met her in a herd of Danes one morning on the way out of Larrasoana.  She could walk faster than anyone I met and was on her second Camino.  Hanne had just started opening to the universe and magic and energy and moving with initiative through the world instead of always reacting.  She was probably half wood nymph and even though we only had a few hours on the trail together, she was one who lingered in the heart long after.  It wasn't until Santiago that I saw her again, but since coming to Denmark, we have corresponded and seen each other several times, so the story continues long after the walking stopped.  Hanne trains for triathalons, but I didn't know that then.







Then there were Max and Sana, two Germans who were walking for reasons I still don't entirely know.  I only know that Max was a fuzzy bear and Sana, a tomboy princess.  Together, they were like a walking fairy tale where the world doesn't know that they are royalty and only discovers it in the end, after trials and tribulations that they undergo with grace.  The last day in Santiago, I was wishing I could see them again.  I turned a corner and there they were, standing in front of a shop.  They told me I was the one person they hoped to see before they left the Camino and we have been in touch several times since.  They live in Lubeck, which is only 300km from Aarhus.  We will definitely see them on scene again. Max is the tall guy and Sana, the girl on the right.





Thus began the first week of Camino.  May it live a thousand years.

Writing makes you rich

It is exciting to think about making loads of money by writing away on a Danish sailboat or in international coffee shops.  Since I am now essentially living my lifelong dream, I figured it wouldn't hurt to check out the financial realties too.

Today I decided to do some research on just how much money I have made as the author of Theobroma Gypsies.  From online sales mind you, since the ones at the launch don't really count...actually. Yes, we better count that.  

I was very encouraged initially because there are two used copies selling for more than a brand new copy on amazon.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/0557658268/ref=sr_1_cc_1_olp?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1339590050&sr=1-1-catcorr&condition=used

Also, Barnes and Noble is apparently hocking the e-book for 8.99, which is about 6 dollars more expensive than buying from lulu.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/theobroma-gypsies-jaime-mathis/1030375965?ean=9781257342891&cm_mmc=AFFILIATES-_-Linkshare-_-TYYL2aZFZn0-_-15%3a9781257342891&

VS..

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/ebook/product-17465977.html

Now maybe lulu isn't as fancy as B and N but upon closer investigation, I discovered that I make more selling a copy for 2.75 than I do selling it in a 'reputable' place like B and N for 8.99.  Welcome to the idiosyncratic world of 'legitimate' publishing.  

I crunched the numbers and presto! 50 dollars. Yes. Oh baby yes.  Riches! Glory! 

That's without the launch sales. After overhead I walked with about 150.00 in my pocket.  

200 dollars I have made. As. An. Author.  Since 2010.  Hm.

So I decided to convert it to Kroner.  1,185 DKK.  That's over HALF the cost of my first month of Danish classes! I've made enough money writing my book to pay for a basic ability to ask where you are from and tell you I ate your banana in Danish! 

Invincible? A distinct possibility.

Watch out readers of the world.  You will know my name and read me. Now everyone, hurry up and go buy my book from lulu so I can make enough money to learn how to save a Danish child from a burning building!

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/paperback/product-12481544.html

My boy Hans C

Today is in honor of my departed homie Hans Christian Andersen.

Ol' HC was da bomb because he liked to make tiny rocking chairs out of paper and give them to kids.

He kept it real by taking a length of rope with him everywhere so he could climb out a window to safety if his hotel burned down.

Hans C was from the hood, no joke, of Odense. This is pure ghetto, yo.  His mom was good for nothing and likely a whore. He said so in one of his fairy tales.

I'd like to give a shout out to tall dudes like Hans with crazy imaginations and a propensity for falling in love with opera singers and already engaged women.  He knew a honey when he saw one, even if they were unavailable.  And the brotha had style.  He could DRESS and he made sure the shutter caught him lookin' fly.

So RAISE da ROOF for HCA, who wrote more fairy tales, acted in more plays, travelled the world more, and was more afraid of the comittment of buying a bed than anyone I ever knew.

You are my BOY H Christian A. I know you believe in unicorns and that shit smells simultaneously. For this I am happy.

A retrospective

This was moments before I boarded the plane to Amsterdam and then on to Barcelona to begin my camino journey.  I had just talked to my sister Summer on the phone to get some perspective and ground myself in love.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The world was waiting for me to step into its wider arms and co-create inspiration for next steps.

Come on world, breathe in with me.

I had no idea how it was going to play out, who I would meet, where I would land, what inspiration would look like.

Inspiration is not a static concept, but I did not know that in this photo.

And suddenly, I\m in Barcelona, breathing Gaudi for the first time.  Hearing Catalan.

Riding bikes around the city to the sound of revolution over high unemployment rates and plummeting salaries.

Meeting middle-aged Pakastani men who sell me non functioning phones and try to entice me to be a lodger in their dodgy "backpacker hostels".

I'm conversing with women who have travelled the world and dance like dervishes and never seem to age. (She is 50)

The sun is pink and crimson on its descent behind the sea.

I have no idea what my next step is beyond getting to Pamplona and then on to St. Jean Pied du Port, but for right NOW, everything is engraving my eyes with glyphs that sway like palms and taste like gingerbread on my imagination.

This is me at the very begining.  

The first stamp on the credencial, no idea of what may lie on the path in front of me...all I can see is ponies and mountains, seashells and prayers for magic to unfold in waves.

Somehow time froze and shattered and played out. I found myself in love.


And then love became the inspiration, lifting my feet, filling my glass, opening my voice.

Slowly, I began to rise into each day, uncurling my heart, and reaching towards all of the yes and share and friend and communion.




I kept saying 'poco a poco'.  All I needed was one step and the wind and the rain and eyes that looked with length instead of fire.

And the way continued to unfold.  Inspiration became a daily exercise of waking and walking and submitting to the quiet companionship of earth and souls seeking understanding.