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.