I'm away. I'm reading David's blog and I'm pleased and i wonder why don't I have a blog, so I want a blog, and here I am. There's David with a blog. In Berlin. In a cafe just like Myriade with an American in skinny jeans pouring the shots behind the bar. I asked him if he was from Mile-End. He's not. He's from DC. But he's nice. They have a scrabble board. A German one. But still.
I am enjoying myself. I am drinking less. I am taking non blurry pics with my DSLR. I have not been going out as much. I miss everything. But this is good. I'm living alone, me a mouse, a cockroach... I killed the roach yesterday. With scissors. I've made a little MTL style routine for myself, minus the bars, which isn't much of an MTL routine, but still. Berlin is like Montreal with more sausage, less poutine, crap fries, real crap pizza and a vaster variety of hipsters, though a lower occurence of skinny jean men. Life is A-OK. Everyone thinks I'm a turk. They stare at my jeans, perplexed. Only the gays stare at me for me. I write, I write, I DON'T WRITE, I write that down, I write more that day, I hate myself a bit, I feed the mouse poison. Little blue pellets. I've got bucket traps going too. It's a work in progress. I read Bukowski and DFW in bed and the mouse scratches on in the hall happily, with it's little poison dispenser and bucket trap with sunflower oil at the bottom. It thinks it's alone. Like peeping in on someone taking their bath, or doing their yoga. Eavesdropping through a door. Feral.
Nothing much has happened or happens and sometimes I drink to make something happen, but it doesn't help much. I watch movies to bore myself when the writing won't come out. It works. The product isn't always a recompense. I eat 69 centimes camemberts and 39 centimes frozen garlic baguettes. I do pushups. I drink cherry juice. I am patient with myself. I avoid a social life with some success. Things are taking shape. I'm sharing. Things you might like. Stories. Pictures. Stories.
Tomorrow is the day the wall fell 20 years ago.