The Airportline: Observations

Our Zürich correspondent went to Sardegna and found this cow. Airportline loves cows.

Airportline is on a one day holiday. After a weekend of news coding my head said that I needed a break. So I took one, booked a hostel in Valencia for Friday, applied for some jobs, transferred some money while grumping over the exchange rate, had coffee, made a copy of my passport and forgot my passport in the copy machine. Took a bike ride to deliver the copy of my passport. Realized I had forgotten my passport in the copy machine. Found my passport in the copy machine. Read Blink by Malcom Gladwell, watched one of last years best band Ra Ra Riot play in church on Pitchfork.tv, read about what happened when Charlemagne from The Economist met the Swedish King, and then this article where his love for Sweden blooms into full on infactuation.

He felt the need to leave the other cows as he searched for cultural awareness. He came to Amsterdam, he came for love. And when he climbed the dirty stairs to the apartment where culture was being produced, he felt the feeling only people who follow their heart and discard the rest feel, the feeling of a beating heart. When he finally arrived, tired after the long walk, he took a deep breath. This was home. Maybe it was just another day for most people, but for this cow, it meant finally realizing that what he had dreamt about out on the fields, but was to afraid to discuss with the other cows, was true. That there is nothing greater than following your heart.

I'm a famous fan of cows. A lot of people think this is funny, and weird. But now, when New York sister duo CocoRosie, that I wrote about previously, pose in front of, yes, cows, for their upcoming concerts I feel that some respect is due.

I started writing on something yesterday when I was sitting on a roof. Here is the first paragraph in a story which has the working title 'The Sound of your life'.

I struggle with reading, on the roof. I try and enjoy the carefully thought about words in books. I surround myself with them, as a wall of ink on different papers, binded together by publishers, or machines. All with the purpose of confining a certain feeling, to tell a story that will engage, that will say something about life. Writing about life already says something. What does it say, you ask? I don’t know, you are the reader and I’m the writer, let’s not confuse our roles. I’m a writer. I’m not an author, to be an author you have to have written three books someone said in an interview. I have written zero books, so I’m a writer. I want to write, now. So I put down the well phrased book with all it’s great concepts, with all its well crafted characters, the built in drama, the perfectly descriptive sceneries and creative outburst dotted with inventive words.