We are travelling through Denmark. I’m sitting on my bed. I
slept well, apart from the half hour inbetween 2 and 2.30 when the fire alarm
was sounding. Somebody had been secretly smoking. Nobody knew how to turn it
off.
Where am I? I’m in Denmark, but that is now what I mean. The
last weeks have been hectic and I better not write about the last days. Leaving
is always a lot of work. It is so much work because time is being devided in
“before”, “during” and “after”. Because suddenly the things you normally
postpone until they are about to happen, the things in the “after”, seem to be
so much closer. And the things you had
been planning to do but haven’t done yet seem to be so much bigger.
But here I am. In the inbetween. A small bubble of time.
Five weeks in which I will be walking and meeting new people. In which I will
be thinking and writing about life and art and nature. In which the before and
after won’t exist. I’m here. I arrived. Although I haven’t reached my
destination yet. Harlösa. A small Swedish village that only exists in images so
far. In the centre of the village is an old farmhouse, the oldest one in town.
That is where I will be. And you are welcome there any day in the next five
weeks.
