You are not allowed, she says, to write about me. Ignoring her is of course easy, as I have always ignored those that offer recourse to my writing. Having been accused of hypocrisy, misinformation and plain lying on the basis of a blog post, this is nothing new. But that decision was made a long time ago, I whisper to myself. Thankfully, many years ago, Barthes allowed us all to detach ourselves from our writing and so I am dead.
Feeling better today, my illness is working itself back down in stages. I feel exactly as I did when I awoke at six a.m. to go to Gatwick airport on Tuesday – light-headed and with a casket of lead in my chest. I hope this means I am coming to the end of the illness cycle, and not that it is starting all over again. The weather has been a laughable parallel, a pathetic fallacy that Hardy would have been proud of. First day glorious, then overcast, then downpour and now today, precisely as my mood and health is improving, Cara and I woke to intense sunshine.
Our courtyard offers one of morning’s joys. We woke late this morning – but what is time when you have nothing to do for the rest of your life? – as light flooded the far wall. Our block and the next form a giant square, seven stories tall, with two sides nothing but enormous slabs of cement and brick covered in a virulent green ivy. As the wind passes, waves move across the ivy like ripples upon a dark green lake and with my poor eyesight the sunlight’s dapples form pointillisms of dark and light.
Today has not been decided yet and as such I write prematurely. This writing, as always, is nothing but a cleaning process, a chance to purge myself of dreams (excitedly chasing Rory, Cara and friends through giant rock-cave complexes in some lost jungle) and concerns (yesterday saw my first plummet, a low point by the river – the city is so big, I wailed).
Yesterday we went to a small gallery opening near Jannowitzbruke, aggressive black murals upon palettes of pastel and blotted paint, before returning to Kreuzberg with friends to sit on Oranienstraβe amongst the crowds of late night revellers and drink cold beers in the cooling night. We ate Turkish pizzas full of spinach and blue cheese and drank our beers and spoke of nothing much, but just enough to remind me that it is early days and that not all successes arrive instantly or with clarity.