Note to self

These are profoundly changing times. Also, it never rains but it pours.

Considering

“Why is everyone in the Outpost so aggressive?” lamented eleS.
“Everyone? What’s the story this time?”
“Someone parked in the middle of the road, popped into a restaurant to pick up his lunch. It was taking a while. I honked, he came back and showed me the finger. Why?”
“Because you are a woman, you look foreign and unaccosted and, above all, because you look Russian. Nobody has ever dared show me the finger during my time here. Jod, on the other hand, has shown a lot of Outpost men the finger herself. So there.”
“So what, if I am a woman, a foreigner and I look Russian? By the way, do I really look Russian?”
“Well, you are a woman driver. That would be enough. You are foreign, hence nobody’s daughter or wife or sister. And by your Russian looks, well, you know.”
“I am so out of here. So out of here”, she said.

Aren’t we all? But then, I had my fifth anniversary here last week. I have been trying to make a tiny difference lately — you know the whole business of complaining about the dark versus trying to light a candle. This has at least made a difference for me. I’ve met people. Moreover, my services are still prized in my line of work. Naturally, dreams are dreams and are not to be given up (as if they could!) but until they grow true, life has to be lived. See, my hair has been graying and my dinosaur lines (ask Jod why they are thus called) have become ever more visible on my face.

Silly things

The Dark Knight returns:

A vintage poster:

The thing reads:
“Gentlemen! Do you want to win their hearts? Buy them Garter Champagne.”
Hearts? Ah, the French. Anyway, the particular champagne brand is not to be associated with august and antique orders of chivalry, established before the actual discovery of sex in England: honi soit qui mal y pense etc.

Finally, an architectural phallus in blue, a sample of the New Architecture to transform Outpost Capital.

In small things

I went out for drinks with Dæmion last night. He was already slightly inebriated, which effortlessly kickstarted the discussion. We talked about all sorts of things, from Hotel Pennsylvania to me writing for a mag (but what can I possibly write about? Well, I said ‘yes’ and I have a couple of ideas — that will do for the time being). We debated a number of issues, most of which sank quickly into my subconscious. Therefore, I expect some of them might emerge later during dreaming and therapy, or blogging (effectively the same thing).

I came back home and slipped into bed.
“Gah, you stink like, like a man“, Jod said.
“That’s good, then?”
“Erm, no, I mean the cigarette stench on you and the alcohol in your breath.”

This morning I went to work. One of the Seven sent me a short story she thinks of submitting for publication. I stopped reading three lines before the end, as I was watery-eyed already and had no intention of someone storming my office (as people usually do, Poet Abu Jonathan, especially) and finding me sobbing. God, what a text. Otherwise, I spent the rest of my day mainly in meetings. An old acquintance, who dropped by to see how I was doing, told me she is so anxious to do a PhD, she sometimes secretly wishes she would break up with her boyfriend (and they go a long way back together) so as to make things easier. Both the intimacy of this confession and its content made me feel very uneasy.

Then I went to One of the Seven’s place for coffee. I was listening to my prized walkman (see previous post) on my way there. Ah, how delightfully walking in this city has been transformed for me now. Our place from One of the Seven’s is now only three or four songs away. Thanks to my idiosyncratic shuffle, these could be any of the tracks below:

HaTikva with Barbara Streisand (priceless)
The Turkish National Anthem
The man who sold the world with Bowie
Hooligan — Heart Throbs
Amerika — Rammstein
Dream On — Aerosmith
Blister in the sun — Violent Femmes
Stupid Girls — Pink
Daddy Cool with Placebo
Rhineland — Gulag Orkestar
Hit the road Jack (well, there is just the one version here)
Benny Goodman’s Sing Sing Sing
… and many more.

I quickly reached the famous block housing artists, intellectuals, party (small ‘p’, ok?) people and — naturellement – One of the Seven. We had coffee, we talked, I came home, we made pizza, we ate it, I am writing here.

The Break

It was not much of a break. To start with, we didn’t really want to go back to Home City for the holidays, we wanted to actually go to New York. Seriously. But we had to, given the state of our parents and of our finances. We ended up spending too much time getting drawn into other people’s lives and then being blamed for this. We once more had to face up to unpleasant facts. One of these facts is that we’ve been away too long, making it strenuous and ultimately impossible to catch up with everyone and their goings-on. Another fact: returning for good to Home City is closer than ever before but not as desirable as it used to be; life over there has become too expensive and even less straightforward, while the city looked uglier than before — although I always love it.

We were at least rewarded with good theatre and dance. And bars. And clubs.

Speaking of loving Home City. After my sister moved to a new flat in this really working class neighbourhood, which Compatridos abandon en masse to be replaced by immigrants, lots of African-Compatridos and Africans among them, I had the chance to again walk the streets over there. I found some of the corners simply enchanting, particularly Fortuna (!) Street. In fact I walked a lot in the city, with music in my ears for the first time in decades, courtesy of a Sony Ericsson W700i Jod gave me as a present.

Familiar sights and places, the 45-minute walks back to my parents’ home at 4 am, people walking and fast food places busy at 3 am, public transport, city lights, waits, the humanity swarming around day or night – they now all looked and felt different, almost enchanted.