My word for 2008: Discipline. Of the most self-loving variety, naturally. But nonetheless.
The book the book the book the book... Write the damn thing.
Too bad the blog is so much fun and there is so much to tell and I simply can't resist, like... Saturday, every cobblestone glazed over, the city a vast, involuntary ice rink (State of Emergency declared! 438 accidents reported!). In the afternoon, I had biked to the Public Sauna on Gartenstrasse, where one can get bodywork for cheap. No stunner of a massage, but enough to de-knot the shoulders and re-flow the blood, warming chilled and stagnant veins. The masseur is a kind man with gentle hands. And, I discovered, my nose pointed floor-ward through the face brace, ripe-smelling feet. I inched my nostrils upward, into the towel. So as not to notice.
Not until I left, did I discover the perils of two wheels on sidewalk. Twice they whipped out from under me. Twice I lay flat on my side. No pain. Just surprise.
Around 8, Bareuth Boy and I slip-slided on our flat-soled shoes to a tiny art exhibit featuring the work of local Japanese artists, Keiko among them. Rooms crammed tight. Sithar player squeaking in the corner. Scent of Glühwein hanging heavy. On display:
Hundreds of emails, printed on paper and twisted into ropes, cut into leaves, knotted together, tie-dyed in spots, then strung from ceiling to wall, like a living breathing net.
The pages of books origami'd, while still in their covers.
A photo of trees and lawn, percolating with flowers so varied, so rainbow-bright, maybe they were painted, maybe they were plastic. If I could, I told the Boy, I would buy that. The Boy liked it too. There was no price tag.
Keiko's oil paintings were a play of greens and blues. She wore a scarf to match. We found her before we left. She apologized for New Year's Eve, her wildness. No harm done, said the Boy. Compared to the man in the hat, I assured her, you were an angel.
The Boy and I slip-slided back outdoors, along with Yogi-D and Diplomat Hugo. I told them: No gluten, no wheat, no Indian. I am sorry, I said. No worries, said Hugo. And we skated to China Queen. Every table taken. Thus, around the corner for Thai food. Cheap. And bad. But the joint was warm, the floor solid. So I ate my Bun Ho. And tried not to complain.
Gauloise-devouring Felix popped by. He had spent the evening ferreting out all (illegal) light-up sites in the vicinity. The cellar of a nearby club, he insisted, was the new hot spot. Jammed, it seems, with the nicotine-addicted, ever since January 1, when Berlin's smoking ban went into effect. I felt a dollop of sympathy for the Felix's of the world, sucking away underground, like lawless bandits.
Oh, but the joy, the relief, of sitting here, right now, in Cafe Oberholz, at any old table (it's one big non-smoking section, baby!) free of burning eyes or stained breath or hair coat sweater growing stinkier every moment.
Call it discrimination. Call it Puritanism. Call it America spreading its long fat fingers and squeezing the Lebenslust out of the world. You know what? I don't care. I am happier for it.
I loved this blog section "Day one, Redux", so well written. I can understand your book procrastination with the easy flow of the blog. I do the same thing here, should study my LLC and VTS touring techniques, read Harold Rosenberg commentary on "American Action Painters", but what do I do.... everything else, hmhm. Liebe Dich, Spatzl, Mami
KEEP WARM!
Posted by: Moms in San Francisco | January 07, 2008 at 04:26 PM
Such beautiful, clean writing. Miss getting to talk to you every week, miss your input.
Wanted more people to find this beautiful blog, so sent you a tag.
http://damomma.com/2008/01/29/i-dont-do-memes-unless-theyre-for-carolie-or-anyone-who-approves-of-her/
Posted by: DaMomma | January 29, 2008 at 05:51 PM