Tuesday, 6 August 2013

Filthy Hot

It's filthy hot.

We're too limp and liquid to move; we try to start sentences but the end of the sentence is so far a hike that
already we drop to our knees in the desert,
already we,
already,
you know what I mean...

I love it.

I have been lying on the balcony listening to the wasps chewing untreated patches of wood from the walls.

I lie around and rub my fingers in my armpits and enjoy the sweet fetid stench.

I am pretty gross.

But there is something restorative about all of this. Letting the rankness ooze out and into the mattress cushion I've dragged out here, a cushion that now smells of meat gone sour and tacky, of honeysuckle fallen in the canal and left to rot.

I am probably not fit for company.

Imagining myself as some kind of seabird who got drenched in oil. I have been cleaned up gently and soapily with soft, sure hands and all that is left is for me to sit here in this sunbeam and allow myself to be restored. This is not an arduous task: the worst is behind us. But I am allowed to be slow, to drag these sentences, to laze, to be cured, to heal.

I am practicing grinning at strangers again.

Not for any particular gains; just for the joy of it. I am sailing past on my bicycle, grossly, with my meat sweat and a skirt flying up over amber-studded, mosquito-ridden thighs, and I am noticing the beautiful people (oh, Berlin) and I am grinning. Most often, they grin back and we look at each other and toast Hah-hah, we are getting away with the universe! and I cycle on and come home to this laptop, to this balcony, to the cushion and its stench.

I am proving that opportunities are everywhere.

It isn't difficult: you just have to start saying yes. I have been saying yes to all the things and each one, when you step into it, is dazzling, the way Wikipedia is dazzling on a hungover Sunday--so many blue links and each one a portal to so many others!--but I am not talking about the internet anymore, I am not talking of blue links, I am talking of people and perhaps of the world.

It's filthy hot.

But I'm getting into the habit of saying things again (it's now three fucking mornings, I'm glorious).

New routines. New practices. New people. All the same old filth.

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