Farewell February

The daylight stays with me a little more and more. I saw the sunset as I left work for the first time since arriving in Denmark. It was magnificent and well-colored, though I didn't feel inspired enough to lay out another 500 or so words on the subject (see February post).

Today is Saturday, the 28th of February, the finale of that one truant month so eager to be gone, proclaiming nonconformity in its shorter span. I wonder where it wants to go in such haste? Some holiday for the months gone by? A retirement retreat where Feb '09 will join its older siblings for eternity, after time stamps an one-way punch on that ticket? Or, less romantically, into the oblivion of the living generations' ever-decaying memories.

(shhhhhhhh....*pop*)

There's that sense of importance in the moment again. I get it in my head quite often, at times when I've slowed down from the bustle and business, and thoughts start to stroll in the 'quiet hours' of my consciousness. The feeling that makes me want to seize the day anew and accomplish and learn, knowing this second, this minute, this hour and day, will never be before me again.

I think the current age of "undo," "edit," and "back" buttons brings this mentamotional (mental-emotional) state into sharper focus. So much of my daily life involves computers (this weblog not among the least of these engagements) and a pervasive theme is the general lack of permanence. Roads, buildings, books, cars, bathtubs, bed frames, baseballs, and planes--all human artifice decays and fades, but I'm more accustomed to their longer lifespans. Not online, or even offline (i.e. word processor documents). Here, in the universe of bits and bytes frolicking and marching about on silicon-copper landscapes, everything can be changed, utterly, irreversibly, completely, and no trace of the past is left. I can delete this blog post and not even digital dust will remain (barring some ghost file archive in Blogger's servers, but you know what I mean). All this virtual cosmos is but a shimmer and shade in front of the hard earth and open sky.

So, all that babble down to this point: I sometimes feel numb to the finality of reality. Sinister whispers in my mind repeat over and over, in habit long ingrained: "Don't worry about being lazy today, not pushing for that extra inch, holding back, going home early, giving up on that task; just hit the 'redo' switch and tap your bottomless 'mulligan' reservoir." I am disturbed and unsettled to see these words on (digital) paper, the first time I've ever drawn attention to this aspect of my personality. I find it bitter, and not the good bitter of a fresh coffee roast, the sour and stale bitter that calls for nausea and bile to join.

It's come to me this morning, the last day of February, on the cusp of swinging into time with the 31 days of March, that I've let so many days pass un-seized. I'm thankful for deadlines and professors today, because my time here with the Danes is winding ever downward to zero, and there's much work left to do, experiments to design, manuscripts to develop, proposals to write, and homework to complete. Usually when I mentally address those last few statements, some irritatingly diligent gland in my body secretes the Elixir of Lethargy. This potion dulls my senses and amplifies those sinister whispers, seeking to drown out my inspiration.

Yet, all of that theory is just a fancy and frilly way to externalize my predicament. There's no gland of course; I believe it's me and only me. I have no dichotomy, no split intellect, nor any extra persona(e) lurking in my vast and chaotic id. At least, that's how I feel, and look, I'm back to the start--feeling. No more time to spend blogging today! Now for honor! Now for work! Now for wonder and adventure! Hail, my mind, to me!

Farewell February...

Perspective

xkcd no. 505 is perspective.

When I read this comic some months back, most of my conscious thought was swept into nostalgia's wind tunnel, to a day during my junior year of high school when I finished a novel from the library. It was "The Gunslinger," first of the Dark Tower series, and one I'd selected at random from the stacks (ignorant I was and fated to become a Tower junkie soon enough).

I used to do this a lot when I was back in Englewood--ride my bike down to the biblioteca pública, find a quiet corner, and stroll the lines and lines of fiction, metropolises of stories encased in paper, on foundations of aluminum, silently bustling under the keen eye of Mrs. Jones (why is always a woman?).

Arthur Clarke, Heinlein, Brooks, Bova, Adams, and dozens and dozens more I can't recall; I picked out "The Gunslinger." I think its cover hooked me (well done public relations!). It took a few months to read it; I wasn't as enthralled as I am now (finishing up no. 4 today, junkie to the core and back again). So captivating (and skin-crawling), full of heart warming (and freezing), and riddled with blood-pumping (and spurting), frighteningly wonderful, and a 'drug' worthy of addicted servitude.

Long way about from the start of this post, there's a scene of perspective at the end of this Stephen King masterpiece (the first installment of his magnum opus, sans contest) where a universe is contained in a burned blade of grass and time flows without rhyme, reason, or boundary. I'll write no more on the details, for the spoiler alarms'a buzzing.

I get exquisite pleasure out of losing my mind in these glimpses of infinity. Tip o' da cap to Mr. Munroe and his stick-figuring webcomic...another in the blissfully long line of creators to dazzle my senses (with a spice of humor to boot!).

Snowing Thick, Quirky Sciencing, Pay To Dispose Your 'Private' Waste Publicly

(ahem)

A post mingled with a few just-barely-not-crude topics...

The eminent infinite complexity (the EIC, or "ike" forthwith), that is Earth's Nature, deigned to bestow a bit 'o home on me today, in the form of an all-day (so far) snowstorm. Ths is the first white, wet, coldness that hasn't evaporated by 10am; in fact it's still patching over each footprint, wheel rut, and drain cover as I type. Looks a bit like Colorado out there today...beautiful.

Without the courtesy of a segway, I'd like to mention a detail of the labwork I've been doing recently. In quick summary I'm taking very fine ceramic powders and pressing them uniaxially (like one of those can crushers mounted on walls) into pill-size pellets, about the width of my middle finger. They must be as dense as possible, and for that we have a more powerful machine called an isostatic press. Covering my bases, all this means is an equal force exerted on the pellet from all sides, tops, and bottoms, simultaneously. Any air jammed inside the structure is evicted this way. Evacuated, actually, and to ease this trapped this trace atmosphere's exit, the pellets must be vacuumed sealed before going in the isostatic press. Naturally. A vacuum pump's easy to come by here at the lab, but what to seal the pellets in before transport to yon machine?

Hmmm...

How 'bout a condom, says brilliant scientist?* Of course! Why didn't I think of that? A 'rubber' is a great way to keep _____ sealed inside!**

So, Dear Reader, at this multi-million kroner, government funded, PhD-filled research facility, a critical step in fabricating high tech ceramic test samples comes down to a 15 cent condom. Awesome! Does this whole situation crack you up like it does me? Maybe I'm just very strange, but hardly anyone I talk to about this fact finds it even mildly amusing. A shame. I think it's hilarious.

Again, without segway, the last item on my writeabout list is the state of Danish public restrooms. When I left for Denmark, I had already heard of there being a general lack of these pit stops available in European countries (this is also the case for drinking fountains, but see Jan. 16 post for why that is so, at least in DK). Out of all the farewells I received from friends and family, the most humorous was to compile a tally of all the coin-operated toilets I ran into during my travels (you know who you are that suggested this). I've neglected that light-hearted duty, but the obervation stands in my mind after repeated scenarios where I need to go and there's no decent going to be gotten for miles around. Not in grocery stores, malls, or train stations anyhow. Occasionally a restaurant will have them, with varying shades of vandalism. At Roskilde train station you have to put in a 2 kroner coin to get in the door. This measure prevents all the honest bums from getting in and sleeping the cold nights away, or the rambunctious youths with sharpies, spray paint, and bottomless dictionaries of bad puns and sick jokes. I found a McDonald's right next to Nørreport station (deep downtown Kbh) with the same fixup. There I was fortunate enough to see the 'changing of the change,' in which an employee empties the handle-mounted box of coins and resets the lock.

The water closets (so they're labeled) actually on the trains are free, so that's a bonus.

The takehome lesson on this final topic is that planning your bathroom stops (as well as you can) along with your trip agenda is the best strategy.


Peace to you.



*I haven't asked yet who came up with this idea. It's the first time I've seen it.
**This sentence should be a 'Mad-Libs' staple.

Early Risen, Snoozing Strategy, Nature's Daily Masterpiece

In my frequent search for new adventures, I set my alarm for 5:30 instead of 6 this morning, so I could snooze 3 times, feel good about it, and not be rushed. I enjoy a relatively relaxed morning routine; I am most definitely not the 'roll out and run' type.

Freshened, lunch packed (last night's feasting remains), and warmly bundled, I snagged the 6:28 bus to the metro. I've taken the week off from bicycling to see if my mysterious knee pain (I recall no trauma whatsoever) subsides. I rode the M2 to Nørreport, disembarked, and boarded the 6:55 Regionaltog (an earlier run of the train I took in the Jan. 29 post) and headed out to Roskilde.

The inspiration for this post came from this morning's sunrise, which I first noticed on the 600S bus from Roskilde station to Risø. This far north on the globe, and in this season, Sol does little more than hint at its coming until about 7:30. Most days there's cloud cover smothering in a uniform and decidedly heavy blanket, but Friday the 13th began clear and sharp with Jupiter in the southeast standing out starkly. The thin lines of cloud laying low in the east delayed the full light till 8, but their concert performance with the sun today brought to mind an effect I really enjoy. I see this same symphony of color and light back home (and it stirred up memories) looking from Denver toward the flatlands of Colorado at dawn. I regret forgetting my camera so I'll do my best to paint a verbose 'picture:'


A spectrum of new gold to fiery red blossoms out in quiet prelude, just above the trundling farms and fields. It seems as a cathedral roof painted in scenes of graphic violence, looking down on the timid and basal landscape. A gray and blue mist floats amongst the naked tree branches, permeating and concealing their leafless shame in swathes of dimness.

The hazy panorama is contrasted by the sharp mechanical clarity of a wind turbine breaking away to the heavens, its perfectly circular arc stirring up the moisture-laden air and appearing to poke at the sky’s grandeur—a strangely comical coincidence of perspective, as how distant stars meet in seemingly close constellation symmetries.

All this earthly climate is made low and insignificant in the presence of the Great Show conducting at near-infinite distance. There, on celestial canvas, there is a slowly churning lava field. The dark clouds silhouetted there are like the stringy islands and fat blobs of semi solid stone riding in acrid molasses seas of fire and sulfur. Their carbonic, pyritic, and basaltic brethren beneath already given over to liquefaction’s maddening call. These topside remainders futilely restrain the blazing inferno beneath, backed by reinforcements of cooler atmospheres above.

The magmatic heart relentlessly rises into being, wonderful burning color cascading off it as freely as ticker tape in a grand parade. As it ascends, its misshapen captors waver and fall back, riding along at entropy’s swift commands to regroup and press again from cooler vantage. In these moments of change more warm, red light is cast out into freedom, bringing with it legions of heat that warp the very air into ripples of nonconformity. The sweet disease of chaos spreads further into order’s domain, both sides executing their actions with the calm sense of inevitability.

The patina of snow in the foreground field greedily snatches up morsels of this generous shining substance and flings it along to seer’s eyes, desperately trying to proclaim itself as the splendor's source. The ever-mounting brilliance rising o’er its incessant treachery snuffs out these silently screaming lies.

In the west, the waxing moon nears its vanishing point and swells to double size, well fed by curvature's distortion. Its pitted face is like a clouded mirror, poorly reflecting the dawn's bountiful hues and appearing as a rotten orange discarded from the picker’s basket. It insolently flaunts its dull decay as a farewell to the waking world.

I must be content with this lesser and disturbing vista as I travel down the road to work.

Yet, not all is bad in the western view. A fleet of windowpanes faces east; their straight and serious hides catch quick to smolder in the dawn's tremendous gaze. They are both mirrors outward, like golden armor, and windows inward, belying great furnaces running hot. The effect is fleeting and in a moment their polished blackness returns, as if such glory had never graced them. Such flippancy!

I pause at my building’s door for a final glance. A cold breeze slides over my face and fingertips, and I see at last the immense intensity is unleashed, ready to singe corneas and make blind husks of unfortunate retinas. I turn with a smile.

Full day is here again, overly hasty and precisely punctual all at once.


Thank you God for blessing me with eyes.

Back to work and a new day! Farewell.

Sunny Sunday, 'Bad' vibrations, Telmore, Skype Critically Acclaimed!

It's been sunny today. The clouds here hang low and move fast across the airspace, and the brightness level is always changing. Gold fades to grey and streaks back into brilliant yellow again in seconds. After a week of nothing but dull wet wool-colored sky, it's a nice reprieve.

My work at Risø is intensifying. I'm finding myself humbled each day by how little I know, and how smart all these people are here. I don't like spending most of my work week reading this paper and that thesis, but I've accepted that's how it's got to be for now, maybe even for the next couple months. I'm in sponge mode, full gear.

I've so far found the Danish weekend party scene to last till 4 or 5am. At my old apartment on Voldgården, Peter and Laurids would be out till at least this hour (I wasn't there long enough to experience a party at our residence). Last night, my upstairs neighbors put on American rap music and electronica till these wee hours, and so I didn't get much sleep. I thought about making some noise of my own, but gave up and passed out around 2. When I woke again at 4, to renewed volume from above, I nearly lost it, but was too tired to care. What a night!

I got a cell phone for local use here, from a Danish internet-based phone company, Telmore. The payments amount to $18/month and with a six month plan (convenient for my time here) the phone itself cost $0.17. Sweet deal, though I don't have many people to call yet. There's a party at Copenhagen Business School this week, and one of my new friends here invited me, so maybe my phonebook will grow. I haven't yet figured out how to navigate all its functions; my Danish still isn't very good, and I don't have the energy or time to type the user manual into Google translator. For now, I'm ride the learning curve.

I miss you all back in CO and the States (and others of you in far-off places...like Australia). The mountains, snow, and English advertisements come to mind first. Thank God for Skype. It's been a real blessing to talk for so cheap (0.13 DKK/minute) to friends and family the States. Fellow Skype users, my online name is rorschachfish. For those of you in Colorado, or those willing to take some long-distance charges, my Skype local number is 303-731-5088. You can call this number and pay what you normally would calling any other 303 number, and it comes straight to my computer. So give me a ring sometime, I'd love to hear from you. Just keep in mind your 3pm is my 11pm, but I'll pick up if I can! I think my answering machine's in English, but I'm not sure...

The sun is setting and its dimming rays glint off the third and fourth-floor windows across the street. My first full month here is nearly over. New adventures tomorrow!

Adios and much Love to you all.

Relish Your Cheddar! All the Shawarma You Want!

The Danish don't like cheddar cheese. I really like cheddar cheese. This is a problem.

Well, not a big one; I can live without cheddar, though my omelets will not taste the same. I have found cheddar cheese in two grocery stores in all of København, so far. I've been to Netto (cheap) and Super Best (expensive!) and many in between--Fakta, Føtex, Irma, DøgnNetto, 7-11, and Super Brugsen. At Super Best I found cheddar at $9 per half pound. Yikes! At Super Brugsen (middle range prices) I found shredded cheddar for $4. Not too bad. So when the craving becomes unbearable, I'll bike to the other side of the city (figures this is where I found it) and get my cheddar cheap!

Immigrants from Middle Eastern countries have flocked to Denmark. It's an issue of modest importance to the Danes, who grumble here and there about the 'trouble they cause,' though not enough to start riots or hate crimes (as far as I know). All over the city I see falafel and shawarma restaurants, kiosks, butiks, and stands. I personally love the food, and it's really cheap too. Being and American I sometimes feel I may get hasseled when my accent blatantly flows as I pay and thank the shopkeeper, but I guess manners or a sense of indifference have take hold regarding the States. Whatever the reason, a pita shawarma sandwich and a Ølfabrikken Pale Ale go really well together!

Nørrebro, Lyngby, Spanish sans-Dialects

I'm going to like living here.

Fernando and Kristian are my flatmates. The former, a Spaniard, followed a Danish girl to København and these days the girl is gone. The latter, a Dane, owns the flat and is looking for work as a late 20-something. This morning was my first here, and it felt like a confluence of cultures. Spanish, Danish, and American, converging in the kitchen, over coffee and breakfast. As an aside, french-pressed coffee is the best to my taste thus far; thanks to James for making me my first pot of it all these months ago.

Kristian, Fernando, and I spoke of language first. There are no dialects in Spain according to Fernando. There is only Spanish. Basque is a different language and Catalan is an accent, not a dialect. Potayto potahto I say, and Krisitian agrees. Fernando will have none of it. Segwaying into a brief discussion of Spanish imperial history, we next discussed Italy, how it is split in two with the affluent, 'civilized' north, and the poor, mafioso-controlled south. The Vatican sits as the centerpoint. "It's a funny country," says Fernando, with division and corruption everywhere; the mob controlling the southern half of the nation and pushing its influence into the north through commerce and networking. Fernando says the country's Prime Minister has sent the army to combat the mafia, and even now they are skirmishing. I've not confirmed this, but I haven't really read much into Italy's current events.

The kitchen table is customized with newspaper pages under a varnish layer covering the entirety of its top.



Kristian and I walked while a real estate agent showed the flat. I suppose this is a good time to relay. Kristian has been trying to sell the whole place for some time, since September 08. I recently discovered this fact, in conversation. What it means for me is another move should he finalize a sell. But, not for 2-3 months minimum. The worldwide financial slump has dealt me a fortunate turn: banks won't loan money, so people can't buy homes, which means owners needing to sell will rent out until the the economy swings skyward again. For now, it's a rentee's paradise, and that suits me the rentee just fine.

I scouted out a chunk of DTU's campus this afternoon, riding along from Nørrebro station via S-tog lines to Lyngby station. As the sun set I caught a bus to campus, and found the building where I'll be taking classes starting Tuesday. On my way back to the bus stop, I went through the student center and caught these photographs, each taken through a different color of glass looking out onto a courtyard.



More adventures tomorrow! Hasta luego!