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My Internet connection returned today. I was excited to get a couple of comments from friends from whom I had not heard in a while.
I went to the pharmacy and supermarket and, on the way, spotted my latest magazine at a news stand. I savoured the sense of anticipation.
The girl at the pharmacy seemed to recognize me from my last brief visit. She explained in English, searching for the word "scissors", that the lifespan of my almost empty tube of benzoyl peroxide could be extended by cutting it open.
She wrapped the new box with the receipt in the pharmacy's paper as if it were a gift.
I continued to the supermarket passing all the smaller, more expensive proprietorships. One little shop for pasta, one for meat, one for breads.
I understand the cashier's questions at the supermarket. Instead of the perplexed look I would fluently dispense during my first time here last year, I can answer the questions.
"Tessera?"
"No."
"Sachetto?"
"No, grazie."
I bag the groceries in the bag I carried from home in my back pocket. The big sturdy plastic bags cost 5 euro-cents each at the checkout.
As I walk back toward the magazine stand I consider asking if I can open the magazine and look inside to see if I am actually there.
I stop at the magazine stand and pick up a shrink wrapped copy of "Max" handing over 3 euros. The lady confirms the price with me. "Quanto? Due e...?"
"Novanta" I reply.
I take my 10 cents and continue on with the magazine deciding to prolong the suspense and open it at home. It is not as exciting as the first time, but still quite exciting to see yourself inside a magazine.
When I get home, I tear open the shrink-wrap and start flipping through pages. I have a feeling it will be towards the end. "Max" is kind of like an Italian Maxim. Of course, there is an Italian Maxim, but "Max" is exclusively, as far as I know, Italian.
I spot the editorial. Coloured lights, guitars, and drums. The pictures are really nice. Unfortunately, most of them are of the other guy. Still, there are one or two cool ones I can use for my book.
Jekyll
Hyde
I'm back! Well, sort of. I have become rather reclusive recently. My roommates are gone, some of the people I have recently been meeting frustrate me (no, not you of course), and there are so few castings and no jobs. So I withdraw.
Then to propel me completely into splendid isolation, my Internet connection went down. Armed with an Apache server, PHP, MySQL, and a little reference material, I have been working feverishly away at some projects. Actually, even before my digital Armageddon, when my net went down, I was doing more tinkering on the computer.
There is one web development framework, the trend du jour, that has me rather excited: AJAX. It is a bunch of technologies that can be used together to create very dynamic and flexible online interfaces. The programming knights at Google catapulted the popularity of these tools into (nerd) media starlight with such lovable applications as gmail and google maps.
So the battle rages on. Geek vs. Gadabout. The two archetypes of my schizophrenic personality struggling inexorably for dominance. I am once again shunning the real world for immersion in this electronic universe at my fingertips.
Still, I manage, not too infrequently, to pry my dessicated eyeballs from the glowing screen, my laboured carpus from an unforgiving keyboard for a night-time run by the canal, trip to the supermarket, or attendance at a fashionable party, guest list only.
There was a feeling of anxiety. A general sense of malaise prodding me in the stomach. The kind you get when a dreaded deadline looms on the medium horizon but, this time, there were no deadlines, nothing stalking me whose existence I was denying, pretending to ignore.
I am driven by putting off deadlines. The procrastination is almost a comfortable habit. Sure, I get things done, and my life never unravels. Rather, it unravels in a fashion I find masochistically comforting, like perpetuating an unwanted relationship. The kind of relationship with a person who's idiosyncratic habits you cannot bear to part with, despite the veiled mutual animosity.
This time, however, there is nothing, at least nothing major, I am avoiding. And that, perhaps, is the problem.
It was with this sense of anxiety that I decided to off and go to Berlin. I knew Daniel would be visiting and I wanted to see Berlin. One should always pounce on the opportunity to see a new city. However, vacillating over potential cost, I failed to confirm any plans, letting the opportunity slip imperceptibly by, scribbles fading in my agenda.
Fatefully, whose fortunes have yet to reveal, a final push sent me over the edge of this thirteen hour journey upon which you find me now.
The purest thought is achieved through transit, be it a transoceanic flight, a country drive, or simply a neighbourhood walk. Pacing is the natural expression of this desire for clarity. I find this nighttime voyage a perfect opportunity to think, whilst others find it a perfect opportunity to sleep.
My companion prostrates himself, upper body and head centered on the middle seat. His folded sweater serves as a pillow. His lower body occupies the window seat. Arms are crossed and legs angle away, nearly parallel to the window wall, bridging the gap between the two facing rows in our compartment. Stockinged feet rest on the other window seat. Mine rest on the aisle seat beside his head as I sit opposite in the middle, making another angled bridge across the aisle. He stirs occasionally to reposition a limb or sip from his bottle of water. The steady sound and artificial warmth are comforting, but sudden motions and the light streaming past the inadequate, failing curtain make continuous sleep difficult.
It is only us in here in the compartment. In fact, besides us, the entire car is empty save for a solitary passenger in the end compartment. The quintessential Euro-Traveller: Caucasian, dread locks, backpack, and occupied with some sort of journal or book. As in the other compartments, the bright fluorescent light is on, forcing the night to stay outside in the cold. Ours is cozy. Dim lights embrace the fleeting glimpses of civilization and countryside.
I spot the blue neon logo for Lindt emblazoned in the sky, the supporting artifice invisible in the darkness and obscured by reflections of the trains interior. The timbre of the gentle sound changes as we glide to a new segment of track, reduce speed through a station, or blur past another midnight express on the adjacent track.
White snow and damp streets reflect the glow from streetlamps as they scroll past the window, some fast, some slow, betraying the depth of the landscape otherwise so well hidden by the night. I am reminded of Japan by the context. Countless sleepy journeys by rail through changing climate, watching the snow recede at the beginning of a weekend and advance on the way home. However, in this case, heading North, it is the opposite.
I am off to Berlin for the weekend to visit show producer extraordinaire Daniel Boey and models extraordinaire Analu and Tabata.
Sorry for the lack of recent updates. Stay tuned for exciting things to come.
