DKcosmonaut

MJ & The Problem of the Color Line

2009-06-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

I was just about to walk out of ballet class this evening, when my phone rang and it was Bobo yelling on the other end of the line: “Kilian, Michael Jackson died!” Do you know that feeling of ominous incredulity when you hear big tragic news like this and you can’t help but smile while passing the news to someone else? It’s not a smile of joy, but a smile of sensation, of knowing that this is so big you can’t quite comprehend its meaning as you inform your neighbor, text message your best friend, run to the computer and check the facts online, read all the tweets with the hashtag #RIP MJ. This smile persisted until the sadness sunk in while I watched a performance in a crumbling, dilapidated opera house, and it turned into a contemplative frown on my face, heavy and full of meaning-making.

This is not the first time I’ve tried to make meaning of Michael Jackson. The last paper I wrote at college, in late April of my senior year in 2001, before there was any talk of planes crashing into buildings, was about this man whom I came to know as the tragic figure of the 20th century. I wrestled with my topic about Michael Jackson’s transracial and transgender transgressions, at the trigger of America’s most deep-seeded hot buttons, exploding our precious and powerful post-chattel-slavery social codes around race, gender, beauty, genius and sexuality – all to backfire literally in his face.

We collectively created this monster/saint to live with us in our own homes. When I was 15, I plastered my room with pale-faced, chiseled images of the King of Pop, and I carefully preserved every magazine clipping I could find in immaculate ring binders. I cried when my mom suggested that the child molestation charges might be true. I defended his freedom of choice when my white friend complained about Michael’s betrayal of his own blackness. I was touched when he’d talk about the preciousness of our planet, and I was confused by his marriages, children, and shopping sprees. Little did I know that Michael Jackson triggers something – at least SOMEthing – in almost each and every one of us.

And little did I know that this something is so intrinsically linked to our collective legacies of violence, genocide, repression, exploitation, to our histories of power and greed; legacies and histories we keep reenacting with each other every single day of our lives. There is a violence in the jokes about how Michael Jackson turned from a black man into a white woman, a violence that he himself repeatedly – and self-destructively – punctured by his physical transformation, a violence that affects my House of Freak as well as yours.

While W.E.B. Du Bois forecast the problem of the 20th century as being the Problem of the Color Line, there’s been talk of our 21st century Obama-age as being post-racial, where color has allegedly lost its divisive significance. And I’m thinking of Michael Jackson’s passing in light of Barack Obama’s ascension, one freak of nature passing the torch to another freak of nature, both freakish in their genius and their appeal, one a victim, the other a victor.

The collective narcissism that has shaped and plagued us since the early 1980s when the King came of age infested this freak and ate him from the inside out, his face inscribed by our every social ill, with our undivided assistance. Now, the President is coming into his own in an age of transcendence, or so we hope. Who is whiter, Michael or Barack? And how has the meaning of this question changed between the time Michael Jackson started resembling a “white woman” in 1989 and the time the Obamas moved into the “white house” in 2009?

The pain and shock that prompted Bobo to call me as soon as the news broke is accompanied by our collective shame of having been unable to affirm Michael Jackson’s sensitive and transgressive being, besides making him the best-selling artist in the history of pop. His chart-topping success is only part of his brilliance – most of all, he’s been the man in the mirror of our world, beautiful, inspiring, sick, falling apart, and ready to be reborn.

[An interesting blog article on this topic, from a different viewpoint: http://www.antiracistparent.com/2008/01/28/explaining-michael-jackson/]

Friendship in Israel

2009-05-10T07:56:00.000-07:00

Standing with Paul on an ancient city wall overlooking the heart of Jerusalem's complex inner workings, watching the sun set, listening to the cacophonous evening call to prayer from the green-lit minarets of East Jerusalem, bearing witness to throngs of orthodox hats gathering at the Western Wall during the final hour of Shabbat, I am aware that the two of us in our quasi-American tourist costumes make up but a tiny blot on the speckled cultural landscape of this deeply arcane and holy place.

The renewal and celebration of friendship is what my trip to Israel is about. Paul and I met in 2005 at an all-night contra dance in Vermont, where I had the distinct pleasure of repeatedly being twirled around by him until my feet couldn't handle it anymore at 6:30 in the morning. We exchanged addresses and started a letter correspondence not unlike a few I had as a young teenager, with creative uses of pens and stationery that pleased the sender as much as the recipient. Then he visited for an afternoon in Philadelphia, I visited for Thanksgiving in Maine, and again in the summer, he visited with my family in Vienna in winter, then I vacationed for a week in Portland, then he passed through Austria on his way to Israel (from where he's been blogging at paulheckler.blogspot.com), and now I'm here, nearly four years after our first balance and swing, with a friend for life.

That's how I travel, really: from friend to friend. And while I could write about the sights, sounds, weather and customs (and costumes) of my globetrotting adventures (which, I suppose, I do plenty of on this blog, now that I think about it), what sticks are these special moments with people whom I know I will reminisce with for years to come; reminisce and grow.

I'm Dating Spring Flowers

2009-05-04T01:48:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of starting a photo series on backs of necks. I've seen some cool ones recently.

But somehow I feel less self-conscious taking pictures of plant-life, that simply sits there, ready for the perfect photo op. Spring is kind of amazing for that. In comparison to the magnolia and dogwood trees on the eastern seaboard of the United States a month ago in April, I'm finding very photogenic flowers and bushes here in Central and Western Europe in May:

Rhododendron flowers are in various states of bloom. Above, a fully flowering bush in Vienna; below a barely popping one near Cologne...

Personally, I find buttercups some of the most compelling flowers, so simple in their individual attire, and so bright when covering a juicy green meadow. I've seen several German girls with buttercup crowns in their hair while strolling through the park with their families on an easy May Day afternoon.

And lilac, of course, dominates the olfactory palette of springtime in Europe, happily fresh on large bushes in people's front yards; and instantly limp if placed in a vase.

I suppose the erotic nature of blossoming spring keeps my interest piqued for now, although backs of necks, tatooed or beautifully shaven, may be what will sustain me through the year...

My First 100 Days in Office

2009-04-26T01:58:00.000-07:00

The white boy with the funny name has been back in Philadelphia for 100 days. That would be me, in the Blue House with my own round-table office at my new address in Pennsylvania.

I would rate my performance so far an A-, taking into account that I had inherited some of the world's largest problems, including my father's property a continent away, my step-father's 7-year-old laptop that was on its last legs, my mother's concern for my financial security and health care, and an uncanny ability to dream in broken Danish every single night since the inauguration. Last night, for example, I dreamt that H&M was out of the socks and t-shirts I was looking for, but instead I found a Danish phrase book for €24 that I could hardly afford but bought anyway.

Hope and hard work are what's stimulating my economy for now: I clean house (for a friend); I balance the books (for a dance company); I cut hair (illegally); I make wedding invitations (to save the institution of heterosexual marriage); and I'm reinvesting my real estate in order to clear my accumlulated deficit (including a new MacBook) and provide myself with practical educational opportunities.

[goldensilhouette.etsy.com]

I've drawn up an ambitious budget -- my own blueprint for the future: it includes investing in health care, education, transportation infracstructure (new lights for my bike!), alternative energy, and dinner. It also includes hamstering incandescent light bulbs before they become outlawed and replaced by those awful blue-spectrum, mercury-filled, unsightly hoax invented by the lighting industry. There might also be a puppy on the horizon, somewhere.

[I'm partial to Wheatens, hypoallergenic and all]

When my days in my home-office get especially rough, Michele stops by for a snack and a chat about Battlestar Galactica or the Rachel Maddow Show. That is, Michele, the dancer. We sometimes take ballet together, too, or spend some time on the Rittenhouse lawn.

Currently, I am meeting with heads of the family on a state visit to Europe and the Middle East, specifically to celebrate two parental round birthdays and to make peace with the people of Israel. All the while, I am reflecting on our tumultuous times, and will say with confidence: It ain't over.

[John McCain is a cylon]

Susan Boyle's Sacrifice

2009-04-19T18:48:00.000-07:00

It seems that within minutes, the world got to know this face. The BBC claims YouTube videos featuring Susan Boyle, the quintessential Ugly Duckling du jour performing a musical number on Britain's Got Talent, have reached 50 million views. Facebook was and still is abuzz with commentary, most of it in the category of "I weep every time I see this video."

Here's a link, in case you've been hiding in a bomb shelter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nox2DRCAKxk&feature=bz303

Granted, the deeply archetypal stories of the frog turning into the prince and the ugly duckling growing up to become a beautiful swan are compelling. Don't judge the book by it's cover, or whatever. Something about no matter how mediocre, ostracized, unpopular, unsophisticated, or different-looking you are, there might be a pearl lurking in the oyster, a diamond in the rough.

I did not weep, cry, gasp, or feel tingles down my spine when I saw Susan Boyle sing. Rather, I became afraid for her, sacrificing her beauty so that we can redeem our collective insecurities about our own hyper-mediated body image and expectations of success. Within 5 minutes, we have placed onto this unsuspecting woman the burden of having to carry our collective guilt about doubting her in the first place, while constructing her starry-eyed success story for her, from beginning to end. We will make her win, make her famous, turn her life upside down, suck the life out of her spirit, use her up, and spit her out -- just so we can feel self-righteous and say "Look, I totally respect and believe in this ugly person. She's, like, such an inspiration to me. She's truly following her dream!"

Except that she's following someone else's dream of success. Except that we'll only feel inspired if we can simultaneously preserve her position of power -- down there, on a pedestal. We will like her as long as we know we're younger and/or more beautiful and/or more sophisticated and/or more all-knowing -- and as long as we have the power to cast our vote on her destiny, quite literally on this television competition.

Would we love Susan Boyle if she wasn't so awkward and backward-looking? Nope. Which is evidence enough that we are not actually considering her full humanity, that she's facing the real danger of having her self-esteem built up for her by her hysterical and complex-ladden audience only to find that she's being carried off on a hot air balloon slowly drifting into oblivion.

May you, Miss Boyle, harness the true power of transformation that is carefully concealed in this experience. I wish nothing less for you. (Hint: Your audience won't give it to you, other than in the form of bait.)

East Coast Bloom

2009-04-12T14:40:00.000-07:00

If you live in the northern hemisphere, you may have noticed that spring is in full gear (at least I hope it is where you are, even in Canada and Finland). I have demonstrated my fascination with buds on this blog before. But now we're on to blossoms. Jerusalem might have blossoming date trees, olive trees, almond trees, and various and sundry other palms. Here on the Mid-Atlantic East Coast, the cherry blossoms have just passed their prime, as well as the magnolias, here shown in full bloom last week in Philadelphia:

This is not me smelling the popping buds, but they do smell really good. And here the vaginal close-up:

Tulips are now in bloom in Washington, where patches of neat rows of them grace city parks and suburban gardens. Out in the Virginia suburbs I also found this tree in bloom today (dogwood?)...

Ever so slowly, these colorful blossoms are being replaced by the juicy, fresh green of spring leaves, each tree, it seems, at its own pace as we head into the lush months of summer...

Goats On Ponies!

2009-04-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

My friend Jonathan is a teacher. Last year, he got the coolest teaching job ever (at least to write home about): He teaches circus performers' kids in a one-room school house, all ages, all subjects. He has a room on the circus train, on which he has been traveling across the continent, becoming part of the Ringling circus family and getting to know the train yards of our country all too well.

And that is how I got hooked up with tickets to the show today. I took my aunt for a special birthday treat. I had two favorite parts:

1. Seven motorcyclists in this 5-meter sphere, going around at crazy speeds -- heartstopping.

2. Three goats riding their own ponies. Nothing can compare.

3. And of course, the elephants. Classic.

Thank you, Jonathan!

Doggie Park Sociologist

2009-04-04T12:06:00.000-07:00

During my recent stint as a dogsitter, I made the following observations in the doggie park:

a) When dogs of all sizes, colors, temperaments, and levels of drool production congregate -- often 15+ at doggie park rush hour -- I can't stop laughing at who's humping whom, who's actually running after the slobbery tennis ball (human or animal), how it is possible that the pitbull slobbers all over the prissiest puggle-owner's coat, ... Dogs are just funny together.

And b) the social interactions between dog owners, some -- like me -- awkwardly standing by the sidelines laughing at the four-leggeds, others engaging in small talk that inevitably starts with "Oh, how old is your dog?" -- is ground zero for rich empirical study. There's the constant sizing up of each other's dog training skills -- how many minus points do i get when my little shitsu leaves a pawmark on the labradoodle's lady-owner's freshly washes jeans because he's so excited to see her? And the gauging of the precise moment of when it is obligatory to start a conversation with another dog-owner, once the dogs have been smelling each other's bits and butts for a while. Do you make eye contact with the human or just stare at their dog while you're starting this conversation? Do you tell the owners of large dogs that keeping them in the city is cruelty to animals, or do you just let it slide?

I guess, I opt to simply look around at the budding trees, like these magnolias that just popped:

Plants are so much less complicated.

Meine Führer

2009-04-03T20:40:00.001-07:00

Together for the first time, each represents his and her people well: He, calmly passionate, rhetorically charismatic, necessarily humble, casually multiracial, able to get away with giving the Queen of England an iPod; She, spectacularly plain, secularly conservative, unmysteriously opaque, defiantly relaxed, able to hold her own in a world of bullies.

So American -- So German.

Here's to bridging the Great Cultural Divide, meine Führer!

How Being A Prisoner of War Changed My Life

2009-03-27T06:55:00.000-07:00

I want to share with you a letter my American mother sent out from Vienna, after encountering a dying Austrian man whose favorite memory is the time when he was a prisoner of war on US soil.

Do allow me this Reader's Digest moment, if you don't mind...

Dear friends,

As some of you know, I volunteer regularly at a local hospice/palliative ward in Vienna. Yesterday I had an encounter there that made an unusually deep impression on me. The patient I was privileged to meet was an 85-year-old retired medical doctor who seemed rather subdued when I introduced myself. But as soon as I revealed to him that I was a native U.S. American he became very animated. “I lived in Virginia for 2 years”, he told me “and those were 2 of the best years of my life.” Of course, I asked him when that was and why he had been in America. “It was 1944-45 and I was a prisoner of war”, he promptly told me. That was the beginning of a 90 minute story that fascinated me from beginning to end.

Dr. A. was 14 when Hitler & Co. occupied Austria. He readily admitted that as an impressionable teen-ager he was fascinated by the Nazi propaganda and joined the Hitler Youth organization. When he was drafted into the army at age 18 (1942) he thought he was headed for a big adventure but was immediately confronted with the cruel realities of WWII. In the spring of 1944 after the allied forces had finally captured Montecasino (Italy) from the Germans, he was part of a small band of German/Austrian soldiers sent on a reconnaissance mission up to the top of the mountain. They successfully reached the high plateau only to find themselves surrounded by American soldiers. Dr. A. continued: “My American miracle began the minute the Americans captured us. I knew that if the situation were reversed the Germans would have shot the Americans on the spot. But we were simply ordered to put down our weapons. Our identities were established but no one beat, let alone tortured us.” Soon Dr. A. was brought to Naples where he was put on a ship bound for Norfolk, VA.

He has no idea how long the rough crossing lasted but he remembers begin full of fear at the thought of landing on “enemy soil” and being thrown into an American prisoner of war camp. He had witnessed how badly the Nazis had treated their captives and wondered if he would be strong enough to survive the anticipated suffering. When the ship docked in Norfolk Dr. A. was told they would be taken by train to the POW camp. “In Europe we soldiers had always been transported in cattle cars, so you can imagine my amazement when we were escorted to shining silver trains and allowed to sit in well padded seats. At that moment, I fell in love with America.” Dr. A. recounted in detail how respectfully he was treated during his captivity. Even though he sometimes had to clean latrines he felt grateful for his “good luck”. At times the prisoners worked outside the camp on near-by farms. He was absolutely incredulous when at noon-time the farmer’s family invited him and his fellow prisoner to join them at their dinner table. “Such humanity! Such generosity! That goodness created such hatred in me for the Nazis and all they had done and all the lies they had told us. Even being held prisoner in a democratic country was a 1000 times better than living under Fascism. I wanted more than anything for the Allies to defeat the Nazis so I could return home to a democratic Austria.”

Dr. A. was 21 when he returned home. He was too exhausted yesterday to tell me the rest of his story but he did emphasize that even though the American government has done some things over the years that he did not agree with, he has always defended America to its critics because of his POW experience.

I was moved to recount this story because it reminded me so painfully of how far America drifted from that POW camp in VA to the black hole of Guantanamo and other CIA prisons. Dr. A. was an enthusiastic young supporter of the Nazis when he went off to war and he had been convinced that America was his enemy. He was converted to the principals of Democracy by being treated according to the morals and values upon which our country was founded. Generous and humane treatment planted the seeds of democracy in a young soldier and the results were life-changing.

Peace,
J.

Watch those Buds Pop!

2009-03-16T20:02:00.000-07:00

Live report from the Wisshickon: New life is poppin'!

Mindless Acts of Whiteness

2009-03-15T19:33:00.000-07:00

Two events shaped my experience of Philadelphia today.

1. The Aftermath of St. Patrick's Day in South Philly
2. The Signing of a Treaty with Members of the Lenape Nation

*******

I find the celebration of the patron saint of Ireland, St. Patrick, a baffling and confusing experience in America. On the one hand, Irish-Americans are more Irish than Irish on this excuse of a drink fest; and on the other hand, this is the one day in the year when Americans of many stripes get to partake in a vulgar celebration of their white ethnicity in general. Everyone who cares to is dressed in kelly green t-shirts, adorned with green mardi gras beads, four-leaf clover top hats, and a Guinness emblem somewhere on their person. And being of Irish descent is not of importance here: rather, this is your chance to explore your gritty, post-Mayflower immigrant, underdog, deeply ethnic whiteness, whether you're a bar-hopping elite college student or an extended family roasting hot dogs on the BBQ grill in your back yard. As long as the beer flows, that's all that matters.

And what can be better hangover medicine than a genuine Philly Cheesesteak from Geno's in South Philly. Mind you, you're coming from endulging your real or imagined Irishness to having a greasy experience with your real or imagined Italianess, mindlessly consuming your real or imagined working-classness and feeling proud -- for once -- of your real or imagined whiteness.

So, then, there is a line around the block to get that cheesesteak at 3 PM on a Sunday afternoon, because we will never forget!!!!

*******

Just hours before I biked past Geno's, I witnessed a blessing ceremony performed by members of the Lenape Nation at my church. A representative of each group signed a treaty committing to our renewed relationship with each other and the land on which this city stands.

The Lenape are the people who have lived in this geographic area for, hmm, the past 10,000 years. The reason why you may not have heard of them before is that they were forced to go totally underground in order to preserve their identity, language and culture. It is just now that they are becoming more public again.

Being in the presence of Native Philadelphians at Tabernacle United Church this morning, where people of many ethnicities were present -- but most of us of European descent -- gave me a sense of our varied histories of immigration and displacement, our complicated and shared history of oppression, extinction, exploitation... In this space, healing and reconciliation were on the top of the agenda, in addition to honoring our ancestors, especially the ancestors who have kept this land for us.

As it turns out, I'll be hiking in the woods with a Lenape name tomorrow morning: the Wissahickon. Glorifying the sacred ground on which we stand is, indeed, a sharp contrast to the grit and grease of the rest of the weekend's goings-on. Or is it?

A, D sharp and F as a Mazurka, please!

2009-03-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

These two people are the reason I came to Philadelphia: Italo and Jean.

Italo was my mom's music teacher in high school. This was in Detroit in the 60s. Mom ended up singing professionally for 20 years in Germany; Italo to this day talks about her outstanding voice when she was 16 and singing solos with the Cass Tech choir which he conducted. In fact, Italo listens to old recordings from that time on a daily basis now. Music is what keeps him alive as his memory is fading and his mind frequently slips into obscurity.

Jean retired last year from being a school librarian at the tender age of 86. She plans to live to be no less than 100, like her mother. Jean introduced me to MANNA, an organization that provides meals for people living with HIV/AIDS. The two of us volunteered there togerther for several years. Now she helps stock a local food pantry and takes care of her hubby. When I asked her yesterday what her days look like now, she said each days starts with them looking for Italo's glasses. This, apparently, takes a good chunk o' time.

I got a taste of what else keeps Italo happy and occupied: You name three notes on the musical scale plus a rhythm pattern (see title of this posting) and he'll compose an impromptu piece for you on the piano (see picture below); or he starts off singing part of a melody and you go around the lunch table taking turns completing the melody however you like, regardless of how much food you currently have in your mouth. "Come on, just be creative!!" That's his favorite line these days.

This can go on for hours.

Jean and Italo live in the Philly suburbs, and their son went to Haverford. So I went to Haverford and, thus, landed in Philly. And now they have 7 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren, plus me.

Open Letter to Harvey Milk

2009-03-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Harvey Milk,

The year you were killed, I was born. That makes me 30 years old in 2009. I have been out for 15 years, lived in 5 different countries, acquired 2 advanced degrees, fallen in love with 2 Jasons, been single-bilingual for 5 years since, and I am slowly becoming aware of the fact that I have been moved back into the closet with disturbing subtlety.

They just made a movie about you. I saw it a few days after a lover categorically refused to kiss me for fear of becoming infected with a disease I don't have. I live in a world where bishops are openly gay and speak at the nation's President's inaugural festivities. Where gay commitment ceremonies are the season's climax of family TV dramas. Where same-sex marriage has been legalized in Catholic Spain, a gay man is the mayor of Berlin, Sean Penn receives an Oscar for playing you.

I also live in a world where queer neighborhoods keep being gentrified and decentralized, where fear and sex come in the same package, where subcultures have become cynical about the fight for equal rights, where corporations like Bacardi and Absolut sponsor Pride parades while queer communities sponsor them to feed our rampant alcoholism, and where I make eye contact with unknown men only to intimidate them, never to flirt or simply acknowledge their humanity, for fear of being beaten up.

Irrational, I know. But that's how it (still) is in 2009. The gays get fired from the military, fired from their civil jobs, denied housing, refused service, refused adoption, refused marriage, refused rightful vindication for crimes against them, denied visitation rights, inheritance rights, tax breaks, full citizenship and immigration rights. We live in relative comfort but also in relative silence, we live openly but also in fear, our voice has been integrated but also submerged. We've become more straight-acting, more mainstream, more consumerist, more cynical, more complacent than you would ever have imagined.

I'm posting footage of the response to your killer's light sentence of 8 years in prison, of which he served 5 before being let go. The outrage generated during the 1979 riots has meanwhile been pacified by high glucose corn syrup, vodka tonics, crystal meth, fashion advertisement, gay cooking shows, and bad lesbian drama on cable TV.

But this year it's re-emerging in California and around the country and the globe with the fires that were lit by your outrageous presence on this Earth.

In reverence of our ancestors,

DKcosmonaut

Home: The Trilogy

2009-02-23T11:45:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning in Philadelphia with the notion that I have completed two major journeys in my life:

1. I have identified the land from whence I came as the flat coastal Baltic region of the Jutland peninsula, the land of sea farers, farmers, and artists. This is the soil and water I feel a primal connection to, a landscape that makes me feel like I'm home. This is a picture from the deck of the ferry crossing the Baltic sea from Denmark to Germany.

2. I have identified my people-home beyond my biological family as my circle of friends and extensive social networks centered in and around Philadelphia. My social life here is rich, spontaneous, diversified, and comfortable. I treasure the feeling of being known; and of knowing the social landscape of this city. Here's a picture of my weekly planner documenting last week's social engagements.

So, knowing that I have a geographic home, and knowing that I have a social home, and knowing that the two are irreconcilably an ocean apart, and knowing that I'll never be truly satisfied with being in just one of these, I need to move to the next level. We'll call it the search for my spiritual home -- a domain large enough to encompass all that makes me me.

I'm beginning this journey begins somewhere deep in the recesses of my belly. Wish me luck.

Water Defines Everything

2008-11-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

It is my duty to go the harbor. I live 7 minutes from the sea. This is the view from my favorite ship dock in Østerbro.

Water is so elemental to this Nordic environment, and so much part of my childhood consciousness. This is what I had as a child in Kiel:

Okay, I didn't grow up seeing the beach every day. It was a 20-minute ride from downtown Kiel. My childhood actually took place by this lake, 3 minutes from our street:

Mama and Fredi were smaller back then, of course, and the dog you see now used to be a dog that looked remarkably similar. Her name was Butterfly. She was run over by a car one day on our way to Ikea.

We had some neighbors with a sauna and a private dock on this Schulensee. We used to swim in it in the summers and skate on it in the winters. After my 10th birthday it never froze over again.

This is the street leading to Schulensee:

I emphasize these road drains, because we had to try and avoid them at all costs when rollerskating down this hill. Their unfortunate spacing took up almost the whole width of the road. Its incline was quite imposing to us as kids. An uninhibited thrill ride, if you will, once you passed the drains.

This is the street pavement on our street:

It didn't always look this way. It used to be paved with tar like the hill with the ominous storm drains. But the municipality added some speed bumps to our street, so no car would mow us down. And they plastered the street with blueish and pinkish bricks. The sidewalk is made of dirt and gravel. It was still possible to rollerskate on the pink and blue street. In fact, it was even more fun than before.

This is where we lived when we first moved to Kleiner Eiderkamp. Number 19. I was 4.

We entered through the door on the right and lived on the 2nd floor. We: Mama, Fredi, and I. Later also Butterfly. That was before Mama and Fredi took a hiatus from each other, and mother, son and dog moved next door, to number 21.

Here, we all entered through one door, but mother, son, and dog lived under the roof. It was my paradise, all these nooks and crannies, so much mother to myself. It was here that I performed Cats on a daily basis. All the roles at once, but only the songs I liked. In German. Poor babysitters.

My best friend lived across the street. Her name is Jenny. We used to take a soft mattress and slide down the actually ominously steep staircase that led to our attic apartment. Now, that was a thrill ride if ever there was one. Jenny was my first and only girlfriend. We almost got married. We were 7 and 5.

Jenny's house looks like this, number 16:

Jenny's family half raised me. They have their very own entrance because they live in the whole house. There is a large garden with beautiful rhododendrons. On the day we moved onto Kleiner Eiderkamp, into number 19, when i was 4, Jenny's parents greeted us on the street with champagne. They were those kinds of neighbors.

When Jenny and I were hashing out our wedding plans, we decided that we would get married on January 1, 2000. We were rational, forward thinking kids.

Now, Jenny has another boyfriend. This is Jenny and Daniel overlooking the harbor in Kiel:

Daniel can talk about ships and ship building for hours. Jenny can too. Her official academic title is "Maritime Businesswoman." So German. She is proud of the Baltic summer cruises that stop in Kiel and then terminate in Copenhagen. Me too.

As fate would have it -- many years after Fredi had returned to Kleiner Eiderkamp, my baby brother was born, the dog killed, the parents married, and the inhabitants of number 21 all swept away to start a new life in Vienna -- the two families of old times gathered together for a significant New Year's celebration in Salzburg. It was December 31, 1999: Jenny had brought her Daniel, I had brought my new Austrian grandma, we were celebrating with champagne on the street. The clock struck midnight, glasses clinked, and Jenny and I gave each other a kiss on the lips. Here's to the most brilliant wedding planners ever!

Min dagligstue

2008-11-01T05:05:00.000-07:00

I think I may have misrepresented my current living space in my "Toilet-Shower" post. In fact, I do have three rooms: a kitchen, a bedroom, and this, my living room. Its English term is apt for how I use it. I absolutely live in this room. The Danish term, dagligstuen, is equally apt. It basically translates to the "all-day, every-day room." Well, that's what it is for me. Right now, I'm sitting on that striped couch you see, which is giving me back pains, typing on the computer you see, reveling in the clutter on the table top.

What I am loving at the moment especially is that I have, for the first time since leaving my wonderful apartment in Philadelphia 2 1/2 years ago, rejoined with the few personal items I decided to keep before I commenced on my great pilgrimage to Europa. In the top photo you see my mute friend, Esther, huddling in the corner next to the couch -- a creation I obtained at a crafts market in West Philly. Above, you see my typical breakfast spread: granola and yogurt with sliced apples in a plate made by none other than Paul Heckler (check out his blog, if you haven't already: paulheckler.blogspot.com), green tea courtesy of my mom served in the pink tea pot sitting on the lit chaffer and consumed in a mug from my childhood with my grandma's name written on it. This is what I live for.

Facing the other way, I offer a view of a previously white wall, which is being transformed into my Vision Wall. Besides portraits of near and dear ones whom I have printed photos of, I have started putting up words and drawings of things that motivate and inspire me at the moment. I tried tracing Michelle Obama's face off the computer screen, but that didn't work so well. Instead, I'm showing a detail, below, of someone who is supposed to be me saying "I speak perfect Danish!" The pink paintings are also a West Philly import, an amazing gift from an amazing woman, Carryn M. Golden (check out her stuff, too: www.goldensilhouette.etsy.com).

Now imagine the whole scene with loads of candles lit, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon, and the sound of, well, something poppy and gay as the Pet Shop Boys. That's my dagligstue after the sun sets in the middle of the afternoon. Pure hygge! (hyggehouse.com)

3 Curiosities Without Visual Documentation

2008-10-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

1. At my local Møntvask (coin wash), you can lie in their sunbed while you're waiting for the machine to finish. That's right! Tanning salon + laundromat in one. My British friend, Ray, says that the Danes look orange in wintertime from tanning too much; Paul says artificial tanning causes cancer. I say: What else could you possibly do while you're waiting for your laundry?

2. Danes love gossip magazines. And Danish gossip magazines feed on scandals from Austria: right-wing politicians racing to their deaths; insane sex-offenders locking their incest prisoners in their basements for decades... Danes are more than well-informed about and ever so intrigued by those mountain folk down there. For me, this adds to the complexity of how to answer the question "Where are you from?"

3. So far, several Danes have insisted that I'm Swedish. Clearly, I don't sound Danish, but apparently, I can speak pretend-Danish well enough to come across as one of their tall, blond neighbors whom they can sort of understand even though we Swedes roll our Rs in a funny way (while Danish Rs and Ds are best pronounced with marbles in your mouth -- "infant talk," some would say). People have this imperialist image of me that I can't seem to shake: An invading German in Austria; a domineering American in England; and now an enunciating Swede in Denmark. Hey, I didn't name that rug "Helsingör," okay??

IKEA Bitch-Slaps the Danes

2008-10-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

While helping some friends carry a living-room-full of furniture home from IKEA, I heard the most outrageous claim.

You know how each IKEA item has a funny name? Well, apparently, most products have Swedish names -- all higher-end products that is. Then there are some beds and wardrobes are named after Norwegian places; dining tables and chairs after Finnish ones. But -- and here the lament about Swedish imperialism -- the items graced with beloved Danish place names: Rugs and toilet seats!

Originally, I was just going to write a post simply relaying this funny story, because I thought it was funny coming from my Danish friend while browsing through the IKEA in Copenhagen. But then I googled it anyway, and apparently it's true, a joke exported throughout the world. It's even on Wikipedia! (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IKEA#Product_names)

And here my "proof," a rug named Helsingör (the Swedish spelling of Helsingør, Hamlets crib):

Arts & Politics: Design for Obama

2008-10-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

At times of great significance, it is not unheard of to ask: "And what exactly am I doing to change the world...?"

This can be a painful question, I think, whether you find yourself working in an office, a monastery, a nursery, or a studio. In other words, when working in isolation, it's so easy to lose sight of how we are contributing to a greater peace, to this massive change that is underway. I mean, not to sound dramatic, but these ARE very special times -- I'd say it's safe to say that the world is completely rearranging itself, with or without our help.

Which is why I find websites like this one so inspiring: www.designforobama.org. I people being creative, and I creativity that speaks directly to our times. No matter what happens, we will always remember Obamania. It's already intensely historic. Living history, if you will. Professional and amateur designers are giving voice to this history in the making.

Look at these:

This is just a tiny selection.

Here's more, from 30reasons.org (where you can sign up to get a poster a day until the election):

Can't you picture such posters in a MoMA exhibition one day -- you know, when they're reflecting on our current times? How amazing, then, that this kind of art is available online when it happens. How immediate our creative response can be...

Okay, now, what I am going to do? Hmm. Blog and pray?

Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead

2008-10-11T01:16:00.000-07:00

While we were sleeping, the most interesting thing happened. I was having all kinds of political nightmares already and woke up in a state of, let's say, bewilderment (for example, about my dream that I went to the Billa supermarket and they were selling human embryos in the form of chicken eggs for you to raise at home...). Anyway, all that to say that

Jörg Haider died last night in a car crash. The Austrian politician with that special umpfff, a reptile that has crawled through the Austrian consciousness for the past 25 years, the prodigal son of parents who were members of the Nazi party before Hitler even invaded, that "family man" who has groped young men in bars a few times to often to silence the gay-rumors... I feel a big sigh of relief coming on: God bless him. Let's move on now...

If you are out of the country, be glad, Because almost all Austrian heads of whatever are now speaking of Haider as a political hero. The collective crush on this charismatic patriot is suddenly revealed. The Austrian people are stunned, bewildered, and some talk of the "end of the world." The bloggers on derstandard.at call it the Austrian "Grabredenmentalität" (funeral-speech mentality), a time when all the "unnice" things you could say about someone get swept under the rug when they die. (This blog, in true fashion, has since been removed from the website, because of its "unpious" content. And this is a leftist newspaper we're talking about!) Suddenly, the morality of forced "piety" creates a vast silence that spreads its wings across the land...

...and comes alive with the sound of music!

[Just before the national elections a couple of weeks ago, I took this snap shot from Haider's election campaign. On the top left it says "Jörg Haider's List, the Original," on the bottom it reads "Rolling up sleeves and helping out. For your sake. Austria." And then someone wrote with a marker on the poster "Sprengt die Penise," which translates either as "Blasts the penises" or "Blast the penises." All depending on whether you like it as an erotic fantasy or a feminist rant.]

Name That Bike!

2008-10-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

Today I smiled all the way down Jagtvej riding my brand new yellow bike. I am in love. It's got a back-pedal break, four gears, a front basket, a back rack, a broken mickey mouse bell, and a pink lock. Note how I took it to the supermarket and filled it with groceries?

There's really no need for me to say anything more about riding a bike in Denmark. It's all been said before. Instead, I am calling on you to participate in the following challenge:

NAME MY BIKE!

obviously, it has to be a special name for a very special bike. here are some pointers: its brand name is MBK, it was coincidentally the cheapest used bike I looked at, it's a bit small for me because it's a women's bike (no bar to crack my nuts on), it's yellow with a pink lock, and it doesn't speak English.

The winner of this contest gets to, well... name my bike!

When You're Lonely, Bake a Cake!

2008-10-07T11:16:00.001-07:00

First of all: Can anyone guess what I paid for these items on top? (I went to three different stores for best product/price.) They are:

- 500g of non-organic Quark (look it up on wikipedia if you don't know what it is)
- 250ml of organic whipping cream
- 6 organic eggs
- non-organic vanilla extract
- non-organic lemon juice (I couldn't find any real lemons anywhere!)
- 600g organic cane sugar (actually the cheapest item here, at 10 kroner)
- a bag of Heksehyl licorice for good measure, synthetic (20 kroner)

Closest guess in any currency will get the first bite of the cake I made with these ingredients!

(cheese cake á la Andrés; delicious)

Curtains Optional; Candles Not

2008-10-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

Last night, I took the liberty of photographing my neighbor's windows. We're talking around 11 pm. I want to prove that my not having any curtains for over a year at my last place in Philadelphia is not a preposterous notion in the north. Some people put a light covering on their bedroom window, as not to force the neighbors to watch them do it. How considerate of them!

Above, my view out front across the street. In the earlier evening hours there are always candles burning on the window sills (as they are on mine). It's like Christmas every day. I love it.

Below, the view out my bedroom window into the court yard. I have curtains there. I'm considerate.

And while we're looking into other people's flats, let's note that there is no clutter anywhere. Clutter and Denmark do not fit together. It just doesn't exist. Just orchids, nice lamps, candles, and TVs.

Toiletries

2008-10-06T11:49:00.000-07:00

In a typical Copenhagen flat, you have a toilet with a tiny sink and a shower head installed above your head. You shower on the toilet. There's a shower curtain to protect the door. If you're lucky you will have remembered to remove the toilet paper before it's a soggy mess. God forbid you need to relieve yourself after your roommate has just taken a shower.

NOT SO in my Copenhagen flat! I do have the prototypical toilet, which you have to back yourself into in order to sit down. BUT I have the luxury of having a separate shower... right next to my bed. (Hopping out of bed and into the shower is now physically possible in one hop.) Which leaves me to keep my teeth cleaning utensils right next to the pile of dishes. There is really nothing better than being able to look out the window while brushing teeth. Even better than dancing in front of the mirror (which I otherwise do).

Now Welcoming: Blog Buddies

2008-10-06T07:49:00.000-07:00

In the continuation of our personal journeys, my friend Paul and I have decided to jump-start a mini blogger community by inviting people we trust to make the commitment of contributing to our blog entries/discussions twice a month.

Thank you and Welcome, Blog Buddies! I look forward to hearing from you.

You are welcome to post comments, musings, critical diatribes, no matter who you are! If you become a Blog Buddy, I'll hold you to your commitment, and you'll see your world expand...

Interested in becoming a Blog Buddy? Just post a comment to this thread, or send me an e-mail.

Hearts,
DKcosmonaut

Farvel, Wien. Hello Kitty.

2008-10-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

It is unclear where the signs are pointing. I'm just going to follow that one that reads "Next Stop, Copenhagen." Waving goodbye to those people over there and over here, soon to be munching on a carrot while gazing at the clouds that pretty consistently drupe over Baltic cities in winter time.

It's going to be fabulous, the age of DKcosmonaut in the place where he belongs, making hygge, riding bikes, dancing in dark streets, showering on the toilet. (No, thank god my shower is in the corner of the bedroom, NOT on the toilet, so the toilet remains for toilet activities only.)

Can't you just picture me baking cakes and inviting friends over for tea?

Farvel, Wien, for now.

Ladies of All Colors

2008-08-05T02:57:00.000-07:00

Granted, it's usually someone else who has to point out that I should take a picture of this person or that, and it's usually those who are trained to recognize splotches of color in an otherwise dull atmosphere.

Take, for example, the lady sitting by the Neubaugasse metro stop, dressed in green, next to a green sign, reading a green book (!!) -- Andreas and I were sitting down having an ice cream while cars fumed behind us and shoppers squeezed by each other with their shopping bags on the ever crowded Mariahilfer Straße.

Or Dorothy in her red shoes, whom Karsten pointed out on a quiet side street in an utterly unaffordable and somewhat life-less part of the first district, who was waiting for someone to open the gate and let her in.

Then our lady in black underneath the unicorn statue on the corner of this concrete-slab apartment building: a delight of the mundane for those of us who look with amused condescension upon the industrial/working-class/decayed shadow of a city where bobos like myself visit as tourists and feel momentary relief from being surrounded by the pressures of the pristine. There are no unicorns in my parents' neighborhood.

Wienerbrød -- Viennese Delights

2008-08-05T02:10:00.000-07:00

I've discovered a new way to make friends and discover new views of a city I'm traumatically familiar with: couchsurfing.com.

Couchsurfing is really an online community for travelers, but I've found it works locally, too. Together with my new couchsurfing friends, Andreas and Karsten, I went on tours through streets I'd never seen in Vienna, uncovered a Swedish elk-graffiti wrapped in silver foil, romped around industrial railroad depositories, picked a stutue's butt, and discovered ladies of all colors (see next post).

If there's something I've learned about this pristine city, it is that what captures an artist's interest here is any representation of decay, of counter-culture, of the mundane. East block nostalgia gains big aesthetic points here, as does the dandy, sexually-rebellious-turned-ornately-mesmorizing bling bling of fin-de-siècle sculpture and architecture, where aesthetic surfaces and history's moral caverns are only diffusely related. We live in a culture here where any contemporary artistic expression becomes a reactionary stance against a set of moral/artistic values that have permeated almost all aspects of cultural life in Vienna and are seemingly impossible to disengage from, no matter how ordinary, forgiving, cosmopolitan, transcending, and uninvolved with the royal past you try to be.

Even butt-scratching a muscular iron-cast bod at the gayest fountain in Vienna contains an encyclopedia of meaning. Or I should say, especially.

Göteborg

2008-04-25T04:41:00.000-07:00

It was a dancers' day in Göteborg: In between looking at boats and cute toy stores, we boys auditioned at the opera house, then analyzed the technicality of the movement and complained about sore muscles while having lunch outside in beautiful sunshine. Turns out I will not be spending the summer in this lovely, provincial town, but now I can say I have been to Sweden. Their road signs are red & yellow (more on that later). I ordered a hot chocolate in pretend Danish and it worked!

Light Tunnel

2008-04-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

The Metro station at Kongens Nytorv is unique in the fact that there is natural light that goes all the way to the platform three escalators down. Public spaces are traditionally kept clean and neutral, not overbearing in Danish architecture. This metro harbors different shades of silver and grey, with green shimmers here and there. The Metro itself -- voted the best in the world in 2006 -- is a driverless wonder that takes you to the airport in 15 minutes.

Four minutes after I took this picture, I met Camilla for after-work coffee, sitting outside with heaters and blankets. In this climate you take advantage of every sign of sun and warmth, even when it's only 12°C. How Scandinavian of us.

Signs in the Street

2008-04-21T12:17:00.001-07:00

Street signs have seldom appealed to me as much as they do here: set on a dark marine blue, the white font is round, compact, yet intensely elegant. The "play zone" sign has similar features: the design is more round than abstract, but also more abstract than representational. I don't know... to me, the scene of the child playing ball on the street is both realistic and clean, personable and universal. A pleasant balance. (Pictures near the new opera house.)

Pushing for a green light in Charlottenlund has a slightly more retro-hipster feel to it. And that where affluence abounds. But you push that button and you're walking directly to the sea. There is so much sky, even when the clouds hang low.

Red & White

2008-04-18T02:31:00.001-07:00

The Danes love everything red and white, just like their flag. Those were fluttering on every bus in Copenhagen on Wednesday, for the queen's birthday. She waved to people from her castle. I missed it on the telly. It's a casual nationalism, really: it means, "Welcome home!" Kinda feels like it, I have to say.

Welcome to Denmark

2008-04-18T02:12:00.001-07:00

Just on the airplane I learned the phrase, "Disse kvinder kan ikke tale. Det er manniquindukker." And here I arrive at Kastrup airport and was greeted precisely by these women, who cannot speak. Mannequindukker. A great word to add to my Danish vocabulary. To the left of my welcoming committee, I noticed this sign, which spoke to me deeply. I mean, I can, like, totally connect with its message -- a little confusion about left or right, domestic or international, transfer or arrival, and lots of arrows pointing me in good directions, and certainly more window displays.

Signs in the Woods

2008-04-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

A walk in the Vienna Woods is fully mediated. Like a king's flag, shape, color, and condition tell us. What?

the DKcosmos

2008-04-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

dance dansk dike dam dork debutant diplomat deutschland dadaboy dorian drama doodle dandy dolly darfur dorothy double dutch doctor dromedary daisy dingsbums date doom deary dairy do.

i'm in, flatlining in d.