I go out in the early morning chill in search for coffee. But the cafés haven't yet shaken off the night and let loose with the sweet scent of coffee and croissants. The quiet canals with their smooth luminescent water mirroring this world beckon me and I walk. Along one, then another, crossing bridges. I ﬁnd myself in front of the Paper Island Streetfood Market, where the "Spotted Pig" café promises coffee and beer, but it's closed. Even a spotted pig needs it's beauty sleep. I turn to head back towards Christianshavn and more than a promise of coffee ... all, but the sleepiest of cafés must have opened now. At the corner of the bridge from the Paper Island there is a man.
He is hung on the frame of his tall body like a puppet between acts and as I approach he comes to life. Not a lot of life. He slowly comes out of the shadow of the tree he has been standing under and stands in my way in an innocent manner I ﬁnd totally disarming. He is visibly drunk. His eyes staring a little stifﬂy behind the round metalrimmed yellow sunglasses. I suspect he wants money when he says "Can you help me ..." and I am already ﬁngering the coins in my pocket. He struggles ... looking for the words. "Can you help me ﬁnd ..." He pauses again. He speaks with an accent. Icelandic ... And icelandic drunk in Copenhagen. A drunk Icelandic guy in Copenhagen looking for ... a café? A bar? A hotel? The trainstation?
He deliberately pushes out the words, a difﬁcult birth of meaning obliterated by alcohol or maybe accentuated by it ...
"Can you please show me the inside of things."
That's what he says. Can you please show me the inside of things? And maybe I would love to...
I can't help laughing, which makes me a bit ashamed because he looks so serious. Well, yes, let me show you the inside of things. This is what I try to do. I try to help people see the inside of things. To not stay on the surface of things, but to go deeper. To stay with their experience. To explore. This is what I practice and I try to pass this practice on. To my students. My clients. But I am not sure, that's what he means. My index ﬁnger gives him a sweeping virtual tour of the surroundings: "This is the Paper Island," I say and point to the factory buildings on the other side of the bridge, "that way is Christiania, out there is the Opera but it's probably closed now, and that way is Christianshavn and all cafés and the morning citylife if that's what you're looking for." He hangs on my ﬁnger and every word with what looks like intent, but probably he is just very very drunk. As I leave he retreats to the shadow of the tree. To the unlived life of a puppet between acts.
The marble sky is a promise of another beautiful spring day in Copenhagen. Can I show you the inside of things? Do I see the inside of things or am I stuck on the outside? I sit on a bench for a while and listen to a blackbird. Singing inside of me.