Days 67-70

Days 67-70

New cities are sexy. Sex appeal hinges on difficulty, on thwarting, on moving closer and falling back and moving closer. On being brave and free, ferried between the idea and being it.

Clara wrote me a note talking about how we put ourselves in places where we can’t go back. She said, “I love that art can only really be made in the space created by the absence of something profound.”

That something— the continents, a cosmic shelter, keys echoing through keyholes, hearts attending hearts, the hand that unhooks you?

I like Berlin fine, though it reminds me of San Francisco. Maybe I even like how I hate it. That old San Francisco and that me no longer exist, but for in ghosts and other dreams.

It is hard to live in a foreign country. It’s gray as fuck and cold and they don’t sell coats that fit me. But it’s cozy inside. The contrast of going from outside in is like a dozen homecomings a day, like slinking into a bath, like you’ve escaped something rough and met something better in the same breath.

It’s hard here. I want to stay.

Clara and I talked about the presence that exists in the empty. I said, “That potential, as you describe it, of pushing yourself or training, is a different sort of place to put your hopes, maybe one without expectations, the open space for potential to unfold.”

Living alone in a foreign country is hard, but making things here is easier. Writing is easier. Not a still moon sinking into midnight, but something swelled and awake, flushed with a language unpegged, relieved. It fetches me and for no reason I follow.