Thursday, 13 September 2012

Oh my god.


Oh my god. Everything worked out.

There is money in the bank and an apartment of dreams and a boy in love; there is sage oil infusing in the kitchen cupboard and beetroot vodka too.

I have been writing, writing allegories and recipes for happiness, trying to teach myself to shh and still and close the laptop lid. I think they might be working. 

I said deadhead your responsibilities like summer roses, Jane and then I did it: snip. Snip. Snip! 

Ben bought me a Hausaufgaben book with a unicorn and a princess and a sky castle. I write in my chores for the day and then I do them then I’m done. I have pulled myself out of the freelance guilt quicksand. I am dusting off my ass and grinning.

Turns out, I love making collages. Turns out, maybe I can sell them for money. 

Last Sunday’s Flohmarkt: a polaroid camera, a box of books on witchcraft and voodoo, champagne glasses that they filled with champagne. 

We are leaving the house. There are things to tug us from the delicious balcony, free John Waters films in cheap-beer bars, Gudrun Gut outdoor afternoon music, talks on revolution and beautiful trouble, a massage at the market, an aye-aye at the zoo.

Oh, I put on a sort-of Golden Hour as part of the literature festival and 150 people came, they listened, they cheered. It went…perfectly.

We are excited. We will be Berlin promoters. The venues here are waiting for us to trip and scatter them with words and music and red rope light dancing.

For my birthday, I will be in New York. 

Oh my god. Everything worked out. 

From now on we will support ourselves busking and snipping up junk mail and bubbling vats of chutney. From now on, we get a free pass from the pavement slab London sky. From now on, we never need to commute again. 

My fingers are sticky with PrittStick and it is time for lunch on the balcony. Eggs and smoked fish and black coffee. 

Good things. Happiness. Wow. 

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