why i have not / can not write

i can't remember the last time i got on a plane and didn't feel sad. makes sense though - the other side of every 'coming' is a 'going' or a 'leaving'.


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formally, i'm not permitted to write think indulge reminisce... (but because you asked, it being an anniversary of sorts and all)

pills and walk. i'm on a strict diet: pills and walks.


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i dropped a bag in an attic somewhere in Den Haag (the Hague).

Bruges was exactly what you expect it to be. lifted out of a fairytale and magic.

Anwerp was trendy and i slept in a strange room in a hostel full of shady characters from a methamphetamine script in a dark back-alley of the orthodox jewish district. two days later i'm covered in red dots but that could be from anything.


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a fortnight before i left it occured to her i didn't have a chance in hell of looking after myself and she set about putting together a toiletry bag. for me. it was a gift but it was too sweet and now every time i shower or brush my teeth or need a band aid i get very sad , or feel guilty , or ... in any case, it's a something.


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they tell me it's an hour away. great i respond, i'll walk. they think i've misunderstood - an hour each way they clarify. i nod. that's two hours i don't need to worry about.

i'm covered in sweat and goad myself to walk faster, faster, i don't know why though. i pant and stop occasionally to check the map. i don't care where i am / going, but it's better to have some vague conception of where you are on the map.

every step i notice a black ink stain on my jeans from where my pen leaked on the flight to sydney. you calmed me down, kept me calm before my interviews. i bought you flowers.


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and when we get home, you said it's been a really wonderful three weeks, q. thanks for staying with me. i turn to stone every time i hear you say it.


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i get back to my room, shower, and find myself having a conversation. my first in about 8 days. it sounds weird to hear my voice out loud.

the next day my feet hurt soo much i have to sit in each gallery of the musee d'orsay and look by twisting my neck.


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i'm not allowed to be sad. q. Q!, you're not allowed to be sad. you have everything, every thing. you never even thought you could be where you are today. didn't dare to hope for it. now you're there. you made it, you're not a loser - for the first time in a decade there's a tangible future that exists.

i'm not excited. i feel guilty about that.

i'm not allowed to not be excited - i have to be gracious, and humble. i'm not allowed to be sad.


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they asked Shostakovich why the end of his 5th symphony ends on such a victorious note. he said to them it's irony. they asked what he meant. he said it's like someone beating you with a stick saying be happy! be happy! and you get up from the dust and mumble to yourself i'm happy, i'm happy as you limp away.


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i take my pills immediately when i wake up. before i have time to think anything.

then i walk. and walk.
__________________(and try to walk out of your shadow where i was happy

__________________but had to leave

__________________but i can't remember why. )


but it's ok. ___these are the things we don't talk think write about.