I feel like I'm in the ditchweed-fueled fantasy life of a 17 yr old Lou Reed obsessive: I'm holed up in Berlin trying to write while high on pharmaceutical-grade narcotics. There is a picture of a young Muddy Waters on the wall above the bed, which kind of seals the deal. Have I mentioned, prior to this, I have not done anything harder than extra strength Tylenol in 13 years? I'm only taking 1/3rd the dose the nice doctor prescribed, for fear of being in a tongue-out stupor. I'd rather be in pain AND be able to go to the market for ribbon and spicy tea AND stare longingly at the giant posters of the new Benno Furmann movie pasted up everywhere AND be properly sketched out when I accidentally got off the train on the wrong end of Kreuzberg and was suddenly amidst vigorous drug trade between dudes with vacant Cindy McCain eyes AND study the cool looks of passing P-berg girls so I know what kind of dresses to make when I return home AND be alone not talking to anyone all day AND notice the severe arches of the heavy kohl'd brows of the Turkish teen girls on the street in Neukolln THAN be nodded out dead asleep all day and night and day and night, Berlinvanwinkel style.
I had long forgotten why anyone might want to do drugs, you know, recreationally, but I remember now. I already feel like an alien on a drift, so they still don't really appeal to me.
This morning, I pulled out my x-rays and checked them, like I knew what to look for. Perfect hips, crooked back, one leg one inch longer than the other as before. No bruises and no breaks, says Dr. Appel, whose exam mostly involved carefully pressing on the top half my butt with his thumbs for a few minutes. You will be fine he said. I am taking him on his word.
Come Halloween I will be stateside, come election day hopefully home.Posted by jessica hopper at October 28, 2008 03:36 PM | TrackBack