23 April

Sunday

23 April 2017

— my weeping birch tree fat with bud

Good Morning All,

I’m not entirely sure my legs and I are on speaking terms at the moment, but I had a good time at the Copenhagen version of the March for Science. The Copenhagen International School was well represented by the English and Humanities Departments, namely my colleagues Lorenz and Becca, as well as Becca’s husband Bent and daughter Freja, plus a most pleasant history teacher named John and his two days’ overdue wife Louisa, with—a very rough estimate—two to three thousand less important people. 

From 1:00 to 2:00 we listened to speeches, or—I should say—listened to random sounds coming from a pathetic sound system, and then set off from the front yard of the Niels Bohr Institute, heading for the Danish Stock Exchange, a distance of 2.5 kilometres, just over a mile an a half. I got to walk much of the way with Bent, who is an entirely charming fellow. Since he is a dentist, I asked if he provided Novocaine for his patients or asked them to rely on transcendental medication. Becca had already reminded me to remind him about the patient who asked his dentist if he could recommend anything for yellow teeth, the dentist replying, “Well, what about a brown tie?”

The signs were okay, although they lacked panache. Becca’s was certainly direct: Fuck off, Trump. She tried to get Freja to carry it for a while, but Freja politely declined, as I suspect would have I, much as I loathe the man. My sign, if I’d been able to locate in the garage the box with the construction paper, was to have been: Donald Trump Has His Head Up His Climate Change. As usual with me, of course, too damned wordy, and Becca was of the opinion it lacked the directness for which she’d been aiming. In our group, John had the best sign, a large circle labeled A Quark and a miniescule circle labeled Trump’s Brain.

None of the other signs were as good as two from a March Washington Max, Stephen, and I attended when Nixon and Kissinger were murdering all those Cambodians. One of the signs was mine: a Washington Post facsimile, with the headline: Extra! Extra! Mad Bomber Loose in City. A fair number of people, including journalists, were photographing it until a guy showed up with the sign: Whose Dick Is It?

I am happy to tell you I did not once seek refuge on one of the hundreds of tempting sidewalk benches enroute. I am also happy to tell you it felt good to be congratulating myself again for getting off my butt and marching for something. And of course it was good to be with old friends again, not least at the thirst emporium after the march where we knocked back the odd schnapps, ate open-faced sandwiches, and shot the merry breezes for a good hour and some.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron