Melodramatic exit, stage east
Let cities light their lamps in the evening; my daytime is done, I am leaving Europe. The air of the sea will burn my lungs; lost climates will turn my skin to leather. To swim, to pulverize grass, to hunt, above all to smoke; to drink strong drinks, as strong as molten ore, as did those dear ancestors around their fires.
I will come back with limbs of iron, with dark skin, and angry eyes; in this mask, they will think I belong to a strong race. I will have gold; I will be brutal and indolent. Women nurse these ferocious invalids come back from the tropics. I will become involved in politics. Saved.
Now I am accursed, I detest my native land. The best thing is a drunken sleep, stretched out on some strip of shore.
-Arthur Rimbaud, Une Saison en Enfer-
Ok, so I'm not leaving Europe. And I'm certainly not going to get involved in politics. (Ew) But me and Ragnfrid are going on tour in Eastern Europe and the Balkans.
We will come like fog in the night, stay only in the cheapest accomodations, bathe irregularly, and leave before dawn, leaving behind only our victims, our admirers and unanswered questions. Lock up your children, Europe.
Should there be anything, I can probably be reached at irregular intervals at
martin dot g dot larsen at student dot uib dot no
martin dot gruner dot larsen at gmail dot com
or by phone:
(international code fortyseven)
nine eight six
four six eight.
We will be posting postcards, so stay tuned.
And if I don't see you, have a good month of July, everybody.