Wednesday, 14 March 2012

Here is what I think of.

Our room is boxes bags boxes, our kitchen is sacks, the floor is not a floor to walk upon. It is a tangled forest where the parrots mock us, caw and cackle at the tip we have crafted.

Everything that leaves this house makes my feet feel lighter, makes me worry less. The truth? I love moving. To slough the layers of stuff from my surroundings. Feeling the vice untether, an unravelling of the courtesan's shoes. And I dream of new stuff. A new room for decorating. A secret place to hide me.

And a high ceilinged living room with parquet flooring and a free-standing, cream tiled bar, a curved liquor cabinet lined with tall, thin, strips of mirror, reflecting our booze to infinity. At the close of the day I will kick off my tall shoes and arch the crook of my foot. James will twirl his moustache and dance his fingers over the piano keys while I contemplate the perfect ratio of gin to vermouth. Our glasses will bead and frost with the chill of the drink and my stocking soles will be perfect for spinning. We'll permit our bodies to tick and unwind in preparation for the evening ahead, where we will dance and debauch and sit outside Spatkaufs below a balmy black sky, hollering at the pavement.

And also a Russian sauna with an aromatherapy cauldron, a tiled plunge pool, and LED lights. A lake. Lots of lakes. Naked swimming outside the corners of the city and diving headfirst from rocks. Abandoned listening towers in distant mountains for exploring and funfairs that have seen the fun capsize and are left with broken rollercoaster tracks clawing their way from the maw of the earth.

A plan to start interning at an English language Berlin literary journal and then put on events in Berlin and then start the next thing, the new Edinburgh, a further Forest, a better Bowery. For all the complaints and work they turned out to be, I am lonely without their mission. It is what we do well; we are seven-colour lazers and bouncy castle salsas. It is what we do best; we are electro-hot-tub-rock-outs and feathered snowglobe spinning. I am happy sitting at this desk flinging words around like a petulant princess, but I miss standing at the cusp of the pulpit while a bassbeat swells and the pleasure we have wrangled ripples through a crowd of people who cannot stop their feet from dancing. It is what we do. It is what we do best. I think I am ready to do it again.

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