day 9. kl. 4.00
to the left of the path boys are joyfully stacking dark blue air mattresses and diving into them. to the right a small group huddles around a makeshift table, fully stocked with scavenged bottles, a choir of amber, green, and crystal. music from someone's cell phone is playing. a couple nuzzles in the corner. spotting me, a girl motions to me with her hand - 'what will you have?' she asks me in what sounds like icelandic-danish. 'beer, wine, vodka, rum, or maybe bailey's?' i should have taken the night cap. i think back to my freshman year of college when paul from the room next door let me steal some of his bailey's every so often to sip it, on ice, before bed.
in another world i take mouthfuls of the syrupy booze and dance with them on the air mattresses until dawn. in this world she is the bookend of my first festival, beckoning to me with her long hair, calling out to the whole grounds that it's last call, and i take nothing.
day 9, kl. 00.15
the power of the beatles is that it's 2015 and young girls still cry, overcome with emotion, when they get to go on stage and hug paul mccartney. i'm at the thai place overlooking the whole thing and we're wondering who will be the 70-year old of our generation who plays a three hour concert and still unites everyone in soft, singing tones to all of the old favorites.
we all wait for hey jude and our voices are timid at first but rise, waves, to match a familiar sea of lighters. the night is deliciously cold now. there's the couple in front of me kissing, young, and eager. there's the couple in front of me kissing, two men with hands in each other's pockets. there's the couple in front of me, kissing, gray hair and familiar smiles. there's the couple in front of me, kissing, reunited after the last few hours spent apart. there's the couple in front of me, kissing, both wearing shirts from the burger place.
day 8, kl. 14.52
the drunk dane with tangled, beachy hair and sunburnt body rises from his towel every few minutes to ask us in horribly gutteral english what time you have and we negotiate with the fractions of an hour for a few minutes before he understands the concept of 14.45. we're curled up on one towel, three heads resting on one another, and you tell us that last night you and roar (oh, what a name) were sitting in one of the dream catchers when a drunk belgian decided to marry you because you looked so in love. he took out a lighter and melted his shoelaces together into rings, performed a short ceremony, and urged you to consummate your evening before declaring he would be the guardian of the dream catcher and be sure that no one would come in during the act. he passes out in front of the entrance for you.
day 8, kl. 3.29
this section of camp is destroyed, flattered
the sky is light blue and
the party's somewhere because everyone's amped after kygo and the murmur of people is a background buzz, but here it's quiet, and only zombies roam the camp area, slowly sinking in the earth's floor. there are circles of boys passed out in chairs surrounding a spooning couple, a loving gesture frozen in time, not unlike pompeii bodies. most tents sing a choir of soft snores, each leading into the next, but sometimes the tents flap and wave and slap as couples moan softly inside. living with so many humans has never felt so incredible. the things we do at night, in private, are grouped together, stacked on top of each other, gathered, amassed, until you have thousands and thousands of individuals sleeping and drooling and snoring and fucking and cuddling under the stars. and you can tour this all and smile to yourself.
admist the destruction a lone 16 year old, slumped in a chair, is guardian of this hour. he plays the slowest, saddest, and most off-key version of 'wrecking ball' you've ever heard on a recorder. i suppose it's the love song of his generation. it's sorrowful notes echo throughout the camp. one more day left.
day 6, 19.52
'my friend says he has something in my teeth, do i?' and then a trio of men that clearly have their act down introduce each other to us so smoothly we almost laugh. and they're really into shoulders, lending them to any girl around that has a desire to see the crowd. i'm up on one and smile at the girl next to me who is atop his friend. it's amazing to be above the crowd in the sunlight while kendrick performs. sea of arms in the air. the sheer massiveness of it all.
day 6, 13.25
we only catch glimpses of the nøgenløb through the crowd, which has filled the hill above the track and has everyone craning their necks for some shot of bouncing skin that means it's started. it's a flash of flesh and over quickly. an old man with a sizable penis runs by and garners an 'ohhh' from the crowd for every lap. later on you'll hear that an old man with a sizable penis walked by the Tour de France camp drinking event, and everyone went a little quiet, and another time still you'll hear that an old man with a sizable penis was by the lakes and everyone was commenting, so you begin to wonder if he's the same guy, this pseudo-camp character.
Accidental mermaids line up in the sunlight, pour silvery water from buckets and bottles / bright tangles, scalp-sudsed fingers. They're not yet awake: toothpaste in a sandal. They swing at the waist: head diving, earthbound, hair crescendoing up and over, droplets flying.
Or: they duck, and squat, and twist (these morning-eyed sirens) under a faucet. Soap bubbles on grass blades, it's well-practiced - hasty - fingers in crotches and armpits, between toes -
/rinse once more for good measure
day 5, 2.30
goosebumps because it's finally cold. zipped up and slipped out of the tent. pot because you're finally alone. a glimpse of a naked figure surrounded by tendrils of smoke. eyes bright with happiness.
day 5, 11.30
jungle is good, jungle is so good. some camp held up a large, leafy plant as their flag and you followed them into the pit of the crowd, and you're both standing there next to an older, bearded hipster who keeps shooting you looks and offering swigs of shitty vodka from a plastic bottle. the look of a stranger with a knowing smile, the kind you can only find with music. and dancing, and dancing.
day 2, kl. 11.40
there are strong fingers on your waist and you're leading him through crowds with an assured smile. you kept smiling at him as the Norwegian rolled joints, and kept smiling at him as you lost your friends, and it's fire when you turn around and kiss him, and it's a beer by the lake and a last call with an old bartender who bids you good evening, beautiful, and a walk back to a tent and a crawl into a tight, cold, space where you're barely awake but there will be time to recollect thoughts in the morning. mouths breathing fog into the air. you're sure you end up talking about things too, but you can't remember. only how his hands roughly twisted the sides of your jeans and how every time you looked up at him he was smiling.