a long strange trip

The bus ride back from Novrup is usually a philosophical one. It usually happens after a long weekend of partying. My good friends live out there, and I spend as much time there as possible, far away from the desolate loneliness that can be my host family. Thesky is a thick wall of gray cloud mass. It’s chilly and windy. I’m in Denmark.
A hang over places me in a solitary mood. One where Danish is hard, and English isn’t much easier. Time to just sit back and think. Its not coincidence that most of my hangovers are spent on the road. I do as little drinking at home as possible. Today there is a trio of Swedes sitting behind me; by association I think of my friend telling me I speak better Swedish than Danish. I wonder if I should turn around and find out. I think about the word home. Sundays are, for me at least, the perfect example of Pirsigs’ Static and Dynamic good. It’s good on these days for nothing to change, everything outside of you remains static, but on the inside, everything is of dynamic appearance. Like a newborn baby, or a man recovering from a heart attack and getting off the train in a new town. Nothing has changed, but you view things completely different.

I think about the word "home" as I walk the remaining kilometer and a half home from the bus station. Edward Abbey had the best definition of home I have read yet. But as I trek "home"ward I feel that, at least for today, as long as no one talks, this is home.

True, my spirit might not reside here. And I don’t mean the roman orthodox version of spirit; I mean a S’klalam definition of the word. I know what gave me birth. But for now, that is a long ways away, in distances of time and length. I am weary, but quite content. The only thing I want to pierce my solidarity now is some quiet music. Bob Marley at very low volumes.

I slide my key into the door and become defensive. Something I have developed at this household. I’ve fucked up a couple of times. This time I’m luck, every one is holed up in their rooms, weathering out their versions of a hangover. It was the big school ball prom last night. All the kids from first and third year brought their parents. My host brother is a 3rd year student, so I had to watch my alcohol intake slightly.

It is a huge affair. Tuxes and fine dresses for all, except 2nd year students. Since they are the only ones who don’t bring their parents, they dress and act as they want. My host mom set me up with a tux, the first in my life. I tried to wear a kilt, but værts mor would have non of it, at least I got to keep my hair.

Trying to remember the precise’s of the past night is always like remembering a dream. Still don’t know why I have a 6cm gash across my knee. I step into the shower. I used to take showers like this back "home", when I was an athlete. Wash away the long hard miles where I had left my bodily remnants. Sad, now I use the same showers to wash away the stiffness of an alcoholicly strung out body. The shower is a philosophic place as well on days like today. Solitary.

By late afternoon the slowness is gone, and it becomes a good platform for meditation. Time to dig into the nothing that is us. I will sleep, for the first time this weekend, for more than three hours strait. I have the week ahead to repair myself.

Hope I do it all over again next weekend. -Tyler Durden

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