K-Blog

an anniversary not worth remembering but that I will not allow myself to forget. And with that, thoughts of revenge. I have already had it. Revenge is underrated though. personal pride and stubbornness. In favor of making things work out for the best. I think I am growing. And my staff with me. yet another anniversary, that I have promised not to blog about. I didn't. But I felt it passing. filters. I seem to be getting tougher. Like an onion stripped layer by layer, we merely become more what we already are. My eyes water, but I think I like this scent.

Ok, I'm squiffy. On a Tuesday. So stab me. I had a few drinks post-work with a friend and now here I am, innocently following a link on FB to answer user surveys* *giggles* *and my squiffy answers are just as surreal as *their* badly translated questions =)

I grew up in the countryside. As in a place with < 2000 inhabitants. Our house was the last house (on our side of the road ) before the fields meet the forest at the horizon. In front of the house were more fields and a long winding gravel "road" known as "hundevejen", where people would walk their dogs. "Hundevejen" was also our playground. I remember bike-racing there, parking the bikes at the side of the road to stop at a little bunker, where we whispered in hushed voices about dead men coming back to haunt the place. The bunker was basically just a concrete cube with no lid, always filled with black, stagnant water, but it was easy to imagine drowning there and pretending to see white bones poking out of the water. I can't remember what games we played but I remember lowering myself into the concrete hole once, heart hammering. I think it was a dare. Anyway; I'm digressing here. Thing is. I remember the feeling of this "Hundevej...

Showering and getting kissed by rays of sunshine through hot-water-vapours. Time slows down and looks the other way.

I was very much in love. And the Valentines Day of two years ago, was the last one I spent as part of a couple. I looked for a blog-post of mine from that day, but it wasn't there. I did find a Love Letter from February 19th, addressed to the guy I was in love with, and initially, it surprised me. Not that I wrote the love letter, but that I *didn't* write about the Valentines Day he gave to me. Thinking about it now, I know perfectly well why I didn't write about it. Bear with me; here goes. He flew to Italy from Denmark, carrying a hundred red roses and a bottle of champagne. He had booked a table in one of the fanciest restaurants of Florence and had the champagne poured and the roses brought, just as we sat down at our table. There was also musicians and everybody's eyes were on us, and the lucky girl that received such lavish attention from her man. An American couple was taking our picture (he exchanged emails with them so that they might send the pictures)...

Haven't had a Sunday to myself for a long time now. Slow awakening in pink light through my curtains, sunshine and scent of coffee in my tiny kitchen, little green buds on all my plants, proof that they too, are thriving here. Bikeride with favourite music in my ears, salty air, as I arrive at the ocean and ravishing hunger when I get back in. Cold white wine to hot, hot soup and crisp bacon. Movie on the couch and little catnap as movie fails to entertain me. Then more coffee and music as I shower; I'm off to hear jazz with friend later. What a perfect specimen of a Sunday. I am slowly, slowly relaxing again; building my little home.

It's one of those nights again . And it is so clichè that it bores even me. But it seems that it takes one of these nights to make me sit down (because I can't sleep and have nothing else to do) and finally write something. I had loads of blog-material, loads of moments and stuff to write about, but I sort of got bored before I ever got to post it. It all seemed static noise or meaningless chatter. Fact is, I haven't had time to sit down and write a meaningful post, or that it hasn't been important enough for me to do it. I am living and I am finding my feet again. My core again, actually, but I'll come back to that in another post. I have moved twice since October and hopefully for the last time in a looooong time. I moved away from NV due to circumstances out of my control * the first time, and got a sublease in a wonderful place on Vesterbro. I actually had a piano and a chandelier for a month and a half. I wanted to get pictures taken of me in an evening dre...

- "So no kids, eh ? Hm. Probably you shouldn't even have a boyfriend." -"You call me anytime. Middle of the night, whatever, you call me, 24/7". -" You ought to watch yourself. Your mom's here now and your grandma was here before her. Probably runs in the family". -"You sure you don't want to get married ? You cook really well too." -"You're quite the snobby girl, aren't you? Probably think the sun shines out of your ass, don't you? " -"It's quite easy to fall for you, your passion, enthusiasm and looks." -"You're starting to scare me." -"What's up, kitten ? Still landing on your feet ?" -"Well, you aren't known as the most diplomatic person ever." -"You're the best boss I ever had." -"Come to the party, it's bound to be fun. It's Pimps and Hoes at (----insert fancy hotel----). You could be a wonderful Pimp, jus...

My first experience with yoga was a near-religious one. There is really no other words for it, though I am not religious at all. It was one of those lazy early evenings at the beach in Italy - the waves were lapping softly against the shore, everything was coloured gold by the setting sun, the few people left on the beach were dark silhouettes against the sky, and everybody was speaking softly after a long, white-hot day under the sun. I was about to pack up my stuff and go home too, my friends had gone home a little while ago to get ready for the evening; I was still working in clubs back then. I was just getting up, when the owner of the bar on the beach, a big curly-headed bear of a guy, Alessio, walked up to me and asked me if I wouldn't stay for the yoga. A small group of people did yoga on the beach once in a while, and they were just about to start. I told him I had never done yoga before, and he told me it didn't matter, he would guide me and I should just focus on my...

I was right beside my boss when the restaurant phone rang today. Somebody wanted to know the name of the tall blond waiter with the too-tight ponytail. My boss gave me a confused look, and I heard him say "her name is (insert my real name)" before the someone on the other end of the phone, put it down. And the plot thickens....

He came back. Circles are closing themselves these days indeed. I took a deep breath and told him that while I hadn't been ready to date when he asked for my number, it had been very important to me, it had made my day, but that I (for various reasons) hadn't had the balls to acknowledge his request. But thanks. He looked me straight in the eye and said "that's all right". Felt good. On another note. As of yesterday, I have been back in Denmark for a year now. We celebrated at work with bubbly and I plan to celebrate a lot more, away from work. Wish me happy-coming-back-to-D-day =).

I can feel it already (links to http://kyllyan.blogspot.com/2010/08/restless-iii.html) as I am walking home, that wind, it is there again. If I fall into this, I will stay awake all night, thinking in loops, doing nothing with this energy that I can't seem to get rid of, this sensitivity that I won't do without, but that sometimes drive me crazy. The same sensitivity that lets you live the good things this intensely, won't numb down when it comes to bad things, you can't have it and not live the good *and* the bad. I need to relax. A lot of things are going on right now, work-wise, home-wise and family-wise. And sitting down now to linger on those things won't help me, I need to relax and let decisions take themselves, as they are wont to do. I was bored , (links to I´m bored) now it seems life has thrown me more than I can handle. Sitting here thinking in loops won't help me out. Will go to bed. And I *will* sleep.

She had been reading when I walked by the living room, I was coming down from the rooftop terrace where I had been reading and enjoying the sun. I stopped to say hi, to exchange a few pleasantries and maybe to get to know her better. We had been tip-toeing around each other for a few days, in a very respectful and tender manner. She; because she seems shy and a tiny bit intimidated (his words; not mine); me, because I am curious and very respectful of what *they* have. He; my ex, my first boyfriend in Italy, and (with time) one of my best friends, and her; the tall, dark Brazilian girl (she is actually a woman) with the soft manners and the curious eyes. Now the living room was buzzing with smalltalk, Nix, his brother, the painter and the little mad bookbinder had all joined us. She had been reading a childrens' book, written and illustrated by one of Nix's friends. She was sitting there, impossibly long legs assembled in a lotus-like pose under her, book in her lap and ...

I pretend to smell autumn in the air already, walking home from work, close to midnight. I know how to imagine something and trick my nose into smelling it. But there is no dark musky earth in the wind, there is no chill yet, the air is fresh but not cold, the rain is refreshing, not menacing and the leaves that have fallen and that cling to glass everywhere, are yet green, and have been blown off by the wind. Yet I cannot convince myself. I'm nostalgic and restless and the clouds are weirdly fluorescent as a sign of something that I cannot decode, as they are hurrying across the night sky. When did the sky get so dark as to show off twinkling stars like that ? It's a full moon too, and I long for something I don't understand and cannot put into words.

She looked at me with a very vulnerable stare. We were never close but we worked together in the same club as  for 4 or 5 years. She know me as a fun gal, always a bit too outrageous - a wild, but healthy girl as another girl put it - and as the always dancing firestarter. I knew her as the quiet wholesome-pretty cashier, the long-time girlfriend of one of the PRs. Now she looked the shadow of herself, dark circles round her eyes and shabby hair. Must have lost a few pounds as well. I told my story of coming back to Denmark once again. About leaving an attractive job in the advertising business, about starting all over again after more than 18 years in Italy, about leaving, also to try my luck with a Danish boyfriend and about the baddest breakup ever. I made the story short (we were small-talking in the ever-busy same club, after all) and as I said; we were never close at all, I choose whom I show my vulnerability to. When I got to the part about breaking up, she got all soft...

I think I feel bored. And in no small couple-of-hours-to-kill-way. No, I feel bored in a big want-something-to-happen-or-I-might-make-it-happen-myself-way. It has been a while that I have been feeling restless, not really doing anything with my spare time. Not that I have much more of it than the next person, but my spare time starts when I wake up in the morning and stretches out in front of me 'till around 16 in the afternoon. This means that on a normal day I have approximately 7 or 8 leisure hours in a row. I wake up rested, and there I am; 8 hours in front of me, in which to do stuff. It really seems a lot. And I do rest, and lounge around - I am now working fulltime at the restaurant and lulling around doing nothing is important too, I go to work rested and happy most days, looking forwards to get in. My life in Denmark has settled quite a bit since I came back from Italy last year in September. I live where I love to live; I thought a lot about getting an appartment of...

I know it is. The right thing to do, I mean. But my heart cries blood-tears. I have been changing my wardrobe lately. Finally put away the heavier winter garments, taken out the summer ones. Folded, washed and aired everything that needed it, either for putting away or for taking out. A heavy task; I have way too many clothes. I have stood there a hundred times, with a wardrobe vomiting stuff all over me, and yet not known what to wear. I do a regular clean-up of my wardrobe every 6 months, I figure "if I haven't worn it once for the last 6 months, then out it goes". And out goes a lot of stuff - usually I just pack a few big black garbagebags and carry them down to the nearest do-good-clothes-container. Must be a lot of very-stylishly-dressed bums out there. But over the last few days I have slowly come to realize that there is no way (as in NO WAY) all of my sandals, slingbacks, flip-flops, dècolletes, mules, kittenheels, sabots, wedges, stilettos and summerboots ...

My brother and I were standing in the kitchen; him preparing dinner, I catching up with things and angling for red wine. "You might want to speak to Nephew about Uncle M." he says all of a sudden. Uncle M is my ex that I left back in February; he loved my nephews and they loved him dearly. And Nephew is very clever and has been asking anybody but me (see? very clever) about Uncle M. My brother has mentioned it before and I have given it some thought; maybe even hoping the memory would fade and the kids would stop asking. But today Nephew had been asked whether he had siblings and he had answered gingerly "I have a sister" (forgetting little new Nephew 3.0 there), and then he had gone on to mention his uncle H, his uncle C and his Uncle M. I looked at my brother for a while before I answered. "Yeah, well; I guess he's old enough". Nephew is 5. After dinner Nephew and I finished off the treasuremap we had been painting, and then went on with all his nigh...

I stepped outside in the early morning. The tiles of the terrace cool under my bare feet. The grass was yet moist, the lake was sparkling in the sun, birds were singing and the insects were buzzing. The light was bright, but yellow, the sky was blue as it gets only in Denmark. The early morning light, the promising warmth in the air, a fresh breeze caressing my legs. Scent of the coffee my mum brought to wake me up, and of fresh bread. The little table already set with butter and cheese, bees already buzzing busily around the marmalade. Coming home from Italy after spending 15 years there, still takes me by surprise. Sometimes I feel like I'll never get used to it all, and that I will always be Italian inside. I still talk too loud when I get excited or passionate about something, and I still use my hands a lot while talking. I also expect people to understand my sign-language and often will try to explain what I am saying. Those are moments when I feel like a stranger in a fore...

"So. K. You are sitting there all quietly in your corner. That's what you are, yeah ? Very quiet and zen-like, is it ?" I swallowed the last of my champagne to answer (choking) "Well, no, not really. I am not zen-like at all. You totally misread me there." She was very loud. And ugly, too. Unpleasant, really. She had thrust out her hand, presenting herself as "A" and from the way my boss greeted her, I just knew she was *the* A I had heard so much about. The girl who worked this restaurant before I did. The one that could sell basically everything. Before I could say anything else, my boss broke in "Come on, you're kidding ? You're zen as hell, K. Everything's fine with you, you're large, you take everybody the way they are, not much fuss with you, that's why you're so good for this place." I wondered. I am anything *but* zen. I tried to explain that I feel strongly about things but this is work; you have to be ...