telegraphs3

25.05.2026

When I was twenty, I took a bike, train, train, ferry, ferry, train, bus, train 

To get to an island that my dad lived on, alone, when I was three. 

Nobody lives on the island anymore. Population 0. When I visited, it was just me and the caretakers. They mowed lawns and unlocked the church and lighthouse for me. It feels and felt like a secret. And my dad. Did he really live there? Could he have?
The island is the size of 100 of my bedrooms, and about as tall as one, too, except for the lighthouse. It felt like it, too, except for the two concrete bunkers.

My dad lived in a stone cottage. One night he heard someone closing his kitchen cabinets but never saw who. When I visited I opened them all back up for him. While he was there, there was one couple who lived permanently on the Island year-round. They cooked him fish and promised him that they were not the ones closing his kitchen cupboards. They died a year before I visited the island. that is why they have to ferry in and mow the lawn once a month. I guess I should say it is not much of a ferry: it is a cabin for the captain/lawn mower, and a bench on deck for you.
You can walk the perimeter of the island in about 30 minutes; it is miniscule. I completed my sandy lap an half hour before the ferry left back for Fredrikshavn. After a day spent on Hirsholm, it was now indeed a family secret. I found two tall stones on the north beach and left buried treasure under them for future visiting posterity. If you are visiting ever, the treasure is at 57°29'11.3"N 10°37'29.6”E. Please re-bury it and leave it for my kids.
I grew up eating breakfast next to photographic prints of rocks and dirt of this island. My older sister in fact still gets to eat her breakfast next to them. They are, in fact, not good photographs. 

I took my sweet time getting back to the ferry. They blew the horn at me. But I very well might never be back. There is something majorly magic about this island. It can go to sleep for weeks or seasons at a time. And it is only really known by its caretaker, and the tiny group of people who were privileged enough to have lived on it for a small time. My phone ran out of battery when the ferry arrived back into Fredrikshavn’s docks.
I wandered. It was my mom’s birthday, but I couldn’t call her. I kept walking north along the coast. I took a right-hand turn, under train tracks, and I found myself in amazing saltwater marshes while the sun was setting. The clear sky made mirrors of the tiny puddles in the grass. And the sun made each tip of blade of grass orange. Therese are my favorite colors. Now I wandered, crossing a half-moon bridge made of industrial pre-cast steel. I sat under a grassy  dune on the lip of the beach  and read my novel while the setting sun made the sky rosy over our island on the horizon. My phone being dead I took no photos. All I have is a pristine memory of the sight. You know those sights that you will never forget; the mental image shutter click. And I have the sketch in my pocket notebook. It is on the last page of the notebook that I had for that season of life. A finale, and a conclusion to a chapter. Perhaps feeling like a question was put to rest, although I don’t know what the question was. What I do know now? I love my dad. I love my family’s stories. I love that drawing. I love that island and the ferry captain. I love the rare seabirds that call the island grasses home. I love the heterochromatic eyes of the two dogs who found me sleeping under the sand bluff. I love that I never saw where they came from or where they went. I love that day, and how it could have been a dream. It wouldn’t matter if it only was- a real dream is just as valid.

lizzy

portrait by

Cold rinse and the deodorant I bought last may

My nose is not used to it and smells it at every opportunity

It is the deodorant I used when I embarked into a new era behind me

When I was with people you would usually not be able to find me with

Doing things that I was very glad to be doing

A smell that is perhaps reminding me of being more content with my future;

A clean cinnamon smell from when I was cleaner and nervous

That was just 8 months ago, you know

Before putting it on this morning

I did the normal rinse of cold water at the end of the shower

Lately I have been getting annoyed during this part 

But last night and today I was rejoicing in the gift of cold water

Like the ice melt streams from cache valley where my dad will always be. I love these bodies of water. the wild itself- you are here! You are part of the mountain. nerves wake up instantly (or go into hyperdrive, rather) and my mind starts to relax. Hot and dry outside: perfect dip in for cutting and rushing water. My dad knows these spaces are special. To move with the river, a new being somewhat baptized by the mountain, manipulating your body in odd ways as you rush down the stream with the rest of the mountain’s detritus. Sun waits to dry you off when your body can’t handle it much longer. We can’t become the mountain truly. Water droplets bake and evaporate off your navel before your eyes. 

It’s a feeling of saturation. fresh body, fresh energies, Fresh perspectives, vibrancy.

28.04.2026

Today I got to share the pleasures of Spotify reconnaissance with Kitsi. There is a lot of knowledge to be gained about a person from their music curation habits. And even more giggles when you find their account. 

You can out a lot from somebody’s Spotify account. You may not even have to listen to their playlists to find out what you want to find out. In fact, listening may distract you from the prize you are supposed to have your eye on. And eventually, you’ll know all the typologies of Spotify users. Most music is clumped into a big group of other similar music (obviously) and you start to notice all of the categories as you find more and more people with similar accounts. The outliers are the ones who are the most fun. It is very rare to find someone that defies all categories. They always stick in my mind. There are just three of these people for me. As someone who has looked at a lot of profiles maybe this is a bold claim of mine but I think it must be only three.
There is so much to be learned from the date of which a song was added to a playlist, and then that song’s placement in the playlist; maybe the first song in the playlist was added 3 days ago, and the second song was added 3 months ago! It means you should probably then listen to that newly first song to see if it represents how they’re feeling. It also means they don’t shuffle their playlists. 

Sometimes I get fomo if I look at someone else’s Spotify. I imagine how they have all these memories behind every single song (as I do) that I will never know about. And heres the flaw in this thought of mine: if they don’t have a lot of saved songs, then I think they must not have many memories. Like not fully transformed into a human yet. Did you know you have to pay Spotify a memory in order to save a song? Yes, you are required to make or retrieve a memory/feeling/reaction in order to properly bookmark a piece of music. It is only fair. Otherwise, who is to say, but that it could all remind you of the same thing! Or it could all be in the name of conformity. 

I don’t think, for the record, that I am sharing GOOD OPINIONS on the topic of Spotify usage. This is just gained through years of experience.
Today Kitsi and I disected her ex-boyfriends Spotify page meticulously, and I gathered by the end the he would not be very tall, he would fall into occasional pits of self-loathing and despair often, that he likes the idea of a dance floor. Dean Blunt, smerz, French jazz, etc.
But nice to walk under the dying electric blue of the sky cut out by  Prague’s turrets and be giggling about some man’s Spotify.

And just like that, slowly, slowly, my taste is coming back.

I sit up from my acre on the grass

and try to remember where i am

Recall listening to Blonde by the Enos after thinking the world was going to end the night before. And drawing a dream I had on a mail envelope, and just feeling like the truth is all out there somewhere in the world and I just don’t know how to decode it.

and these were my grandparents in the dream. they still are, in the dream.