My lover eats a döner box from the same train-station on different days.
I’m going to be working mainly on and posting at my other blog while I’m in Berlin — maybe not fashion-y stuff since I own no clothes anymore but maybe so if it ever warms up/I get money etc. But I will be posting words, photos, art and probably wearing the same fig-colored coat again and again and again for the next two months there at Song of the Exile, which as a blogname is now more appropriate than I could’ve ever imagined it would be when I first cribbed it from Kiana Davenport, who wrote a book I didn’t actually like but couldn’t stop thinking about and I still think about it, especially now that I am in Germany which is like a whole country dedicated to the horrorisms WWII, but I don’t think that is a terribly PC thing to say but nevertheless it feels true. Please visit my blog there and add it to your lists and comment and love and I will comment and return your love and manifold kindnesses!
Berlin Mitte, lovelocks, and my loooover whom I want to look at constantly.
Here John has been rained on and is unable to go into the camera store, as it is closed Wednesdays. Also, a bicycle outside our apartment, a bicycle store, and a wet piece of paper on the ground.
Today I learned that doing my hair in Berlin is dumb, because it will get destroyed. It was also fifty-three degrees American, and glorious, and isn’t my man glorious as well? It is sometimes hard for me to contain my joy at him. To continue, today, I curled my hair, and I promise promise it looked really pretty when we went out, but by the last stop it was this humidified mess, and that’s okay too because it is lovely here and I don’t really mind the rain at all. I am also always really surprised at how big my purses look in photographs, because when I buy them I try to be conscious of that very body-dwarfing quality and yet whenever I see photos of myself and purses I see I am as-always dwarfed by them. It would help to be bigger, and I think also to have bigger hair, which is a goal toward which I am continually working, but also a goal that my likewise continual aging will probably thwart at some point, either distant or not.
These are pictures from our neighborhood in Berlin. It is, I think, so pretty because everything is pastel. Last night we walked around and wanted deeply to go into every little bar and it was quiet from the snow and not even that cold (relative).
I finally finally got to Berlin after driving seven hours and selling my car and taking five planes and freezing my ass off in sub-zero NYC while drinking $2 margaritas five minutes from my sister’s office in Manhattan and then walking another seven minutes back to her sweet new pad in Manhattan where I had to wear ear-plugs to sleep but then discovered many of my sleeping troubles might be sound-related, note-to-self, and then I went to Berlin, where my boyfriend met me at the airport with yellow flowers and took me back to our lovely apartment with a graffitied door, and where it was sunny for two days straight, and where it is snowing today, and where there are delicious fancy cheeses for 89 cents and also maybe my very favorite thing about Europe, which is the pear purée juice everywhere, OMG, I want to drink it every day, hot and cold, morning and night, undiluted and diluted with both water and alcohol. And our apartment is five stories up and facing away from the street so it is peaceful and quiet, and I have never lived so high up, or so far away from home, and so far it is nice, and very different, and very exciting.