As much as I love words, they are no substitute for action. Maybe this is why I am not especially moved by poetry in the printed form, in most cases I even find it annoying. Words are cheap, and I learned early on that the people who would throw the word love around, were not the ones who showed you what it meant. My grandparents on both sides belonged to a generation that almost never used that word "love", I am not even sure they ever told me how much they loved me in those words, but I never doubted for a second that it was so.
For many years I feared that something was wrong with me for not getting mushy from reading poetry, and for not crying at weddings. Now I know better of course, and I see poetry everywhere, it just speaks to me in a different language that's all.
The hangover (today's was a small price I was happy to pay for yesterday's record breaking fun night out).
And the old ambulance from the other day, with a whole story to tell:
Look at that perfect clay like grey, all alone in the back alley kissing the wall.
Inviting you closer.
Mmm, the colors and the textures, dirty but at the same time creamy.
...and the all important but so underrated second look.
This weekend the Experimentarium is hosting a big soap bubble festival with bubble experts from all over the world. By sheer chance I came by a couple of them yesterday, as they were giving a free show in the streets of Copenhagen. Is there anything more poetic than fragile glassy bubbles the size of baby elephants floating into the sunset, bursting into fountains of soap mid air? I think not.
Sterling Johnson, The Bubblesmith from San Francisco working his magic.
Heart of soap, beautiful but short lived. To be enjoyed while it lasts.