Below are journals written in England, Germany, and Denmark.
some places are just easier to digest–London feels like home–and when a city puts forth effort to plant, display art, and insert charm in every possible corner, visitors are able to enjoy the in-between experiences. i’ve always been very much an “in-betweener,” an old soul in a young body, a fierce thinker with a gentle heart, undeniably intolerant of impoliteness yet quick to fight for what i believe in. it’s a daring and special adventure to see your own subjective reality for what it is: fragile and microscopic, as it is represented in the things and places around you; contained in a moment, like the five attempts made at picking up a pesky penny, or the time you left that perfectly blended coffee on top of your car before driving off to work: we have just enough time to stop and breathe. it takes five to ten seconds to choose to collect your being as it attempts to escape into negativity and stress. there’s moments to push–to the monument or the show–and then there are moments to throw out a line into the water, and find the calm just before you’re pulled back into movement by an invisible fish.
i’ve never commented about this on social media before, but recently i updated my bio on Instagram (sort of jokingly), so here it is: i’ve been called a witch most of my life; told i resemble some television character–give you three guesses on the common comparisons–but there’s never been a photo that has captured that for me as this one does. i was a very unusual child and now i’m an unusual woman; i have unconventional beliefs and weird practices; i rightly believe in some things and superstitiously believe in others, and i’m just fine with my reputation. in fact, i wouldn’t want to be any other way. oddities give us power.
storybook living is two-dimensional–there’s value in sorrow, and pain, and suffering–i want a flight-delayed, burnt-chips, no-ice, wet-kisses kind-of-life. that way, i might remember you better: your joy in a thunderstorm; that time you dropped a bouquet of roses on tile because you couldn’t heal me; your jumbled words and your impossibly brilliant mind. if i take a broken bone for ten years with you, or if i never publish another novel for a lifetime of crumbled up paper piled in the bin, with you telling me “it’s all divine” but i don’t agree, i will have it all. there will always be a price for magic in our lives.
smitten with this human and this space. my heart is so happy.
incredibly sad prose was inspired by this flawless dried bouquet. it hangs by the entrance of our studio in Munich. what something is this?
space can often feel limited; i find myself with this ache for a proper place to do my projects. it’s a distraction that i intend to remedy very soon. until then, here’s a reflective shot of the Albrecht Durer house where they imagined a space for him to have worked. we don’t actually know if he painted in his home, or if he had someplace to retreat to, but there’s something romantic in this corner. artists employed by museum still use this space to make prints of his work for purchase.
Nuremberg was an adventure. we took a bus from Munich without much of any idea what we were in for. it managed to hail, snow, rain + be consumed in sunshine moment to moment for the eight hours we explored the old city. there is much history to be discovered here, with the Albrecht Durer house tucked away beyond a tavern appropriately named ” The Wanderer”–such a thing to be–but fatefully, we had been much too lucky. our bus out was delayed with no notice, so we waited, frigidly, for about an hour and a half before arriving back to our studio after midnight. considering we are Americans with little-to-no experience on public transit, (the US really needs to get on a better and safer system), we have made out seamlessly. a joke formed that we “live here,” in each country we’ve only had but a slice of, all except for my graceful wipeout on my bike today. there will always be bumps in the road, but i don’t mind a few bumps + bruises when the streets are made of cobblestone and filled with charms older than our borders.
we arrived in Copenhagen at midnight, managing to stumble heavy-eyed and hopeful through the city to reach our last stop. there are so many beautiful places we have yet to see in this city.
i’ve been living in such carefully curated spaces, some more eclectic than others, and i’m beginning to see my vision for a space for us come into being. i’m collecting inspiration through European way of life–even the wall sockets in Denmark are happy–and i love to see the numerous plants + cacti sitting in the windows of the buildings here. i wish i could take this one home with me, a true souvenir of how much this trip has helped me–us–grow. i hope to continue to learn more while we explore these next few days before departing home. i promise this is not the end, but only the beginning; this adventure has propagated new limbs of curiosity in my spirit, and i will continue to gather pieces of this wonderful life to share.
Copenhagen style speaks to my minimal yet colorful taste. i love a monochromatic outfit (@kylemkoppe believes “navy is a neutral color”), but a space needs to be simple & a bit daring to feel cozy to me. @stilleben_dk uses light and playful shapes to represent an array of goods. (Yes, they have international shipping). for now, a focus on the subjective views; you’ll notice all of my photos have an eye for the corners of the world with commentary on the larger picture. i tend to fixate on the beauty marks of the body rather than how each piece fits together, for fear of the disjointed or the absence of flow, but maybe more for the unfortunate fleeting nature of joy–once i am reminded that not all places pick up their litter and that the scars of war are evident, on every scale; the psyche and the earth. but here, in the making of a home and a future for generations keen on preservation, sustainability, and life, this may be heaven.
foolish to believe we have it all worked out. harmless as it may seem, we become fastened; turned tight to the hinges, and when we swing, we creak and moan and claim ourselves unmovable. it is all because we are taught that to be stable is to be settled; tightening bibs when we’ve yet to cease spilling milk on our own chests; pouring wine to the brim when we’re drunk enough; kissing a brand new lover because the old one saw us for the imperfect animal within. ‘why not be renewed and spiritual and inviting?’ we think, like oil paint on wood. peeling, intoxicating visions of what we aren’t; tears cried for the extra inch, the ungrateful friend, the absent minds about us, that is a sadness i refuse to indulge. i have nothing sorted for the first time in my life, and not because i don’t have plans or hopes. but because i do.
traveling, for me, has had curative powers. it’s as if many of my ailments have completely dissipated; i felt held back from seeing the world–not just seeing, but experiencing it–and it seemed that at every turn there was an excuse or a justifiable “adult” reason to say ‘no, not yet.’ we all do this, have set levels we must reach; thresholds that we have no real foresight to predict will come to pass when we want them. it is privileged to think that we can all just pack our luggage and hop on a plane to paradise. but we can afford ourselves a small view or treat to calm our bodies from the strain we put them through, the tense muscles and the stress fractures of wanting to be as we dreamed ourselves up. so, have a cup of hot chocolate or tea or coffee while we try to attain the ‘right time’ we so often employ just to say that it isn’t. after all, we aren’t there yet.
fantasy worlds are fragile; as soon as we cross through the veil, ever so thin, back into reality, all perceived and subjective, it can feel quite overwhelming. life happens and things mount. it can seem as though the universe throttles us for the sake of random reactions to even the scale and satisfy the gods that govern it. my younger self would find it dark and comical to feel so thankful. i’d probably say something condescending, sprinkled with my favorite bloodshot profanities and refer to myself as a wannabe-angel. but now that i’m older, and still so young that this too may change, i see that the list to be accounted for is the accomplishments, the positives, the parts to feel blessed for. there’s no reason to dwell; just chin up and take it one step at a time.
dreams, with eyes bent, up and over the sightline of All; of you, in your fragile way, strong and bendable, but the hold you have here, insignificant. because you’re up there, with the infinite, your feet lifting from the ground to spin you in blue light; until you’re gone and i remember that i never knew you.
@kylemkoppe sporting @rainsjournal and @jcrew while we explored Rosenberg Slot –we hopped on our bikes without any plans nor sense of direction. i saw the green rooftops in the distance beyond our flat and knew we were in for something beautiful
i’ve never had much of a sweet tooth; it’s not that i rarely afford myself treats–i don’t deny myself of something that will make me happy–but i was not the child to take a second slice of cake, or finish my first slice, for that matter. but hot coco in Copenhagen felt different. i could savor it, seeing the chocolate swirl and be soaked up by the milk. there was this habitual feeling, like it was reinvented as an experience to be repeated; shown to children, maybe. there will always be this nostalgia–swiss miss after rolling back inside with snow stuck to me and my cheeks rosy & numb; my cold nose met by the hot and inviting comfort–a brick fireplace with fresh wood & long matches to light up the obituaries/crime section of our high stack of unread newspapers. but this, this cup tasted like a new life, one where i could feel the child-like joy rise from the grave of adulthood. i invite you to experience something old as if it were brand new.
last night was one of the best of my life. we were limitless and honest and daring. i was complicated, but the thoughts were simple: i was afraid. of what? it didn’t matter much; i became lost in it. it wasn’t confusing or messy, it was raw and unapologetically human. often the times we remember most fondly are the ones where we realized it was all going to work out. it will all work out just fine.