Even though I only start writing now, at thirteen minutes past twelve, I feel as though I seized the day. Cara and I rode to Kreuzberg, down the hill, through the back streets, over Karl Marx Allee and across the bridge to deliver her at her language lesson.
I then went for breakfast at the place on the street corner where we used to go and make coffee last for hours as we used the free wireless internet. Breakfasts here are nothing like England; ten different types of cheese, three different types of bread, strong gritty coffee, kiwi, pineapple, grape, cherry.
Today I had no computer, just Calvino (some 30 pages from being finished) and some notes about my novel. After a dark couple of days where nothing seemed to fit and the entire opening seemed destined for the bin, I have begun once more to see patterns emaerge. As the ideas in the novel expand, as the characters grow and begin to take shape, the infrastructure becomes weak and unsatisfactory. Certain plot elements are unable to sustain the increased needs of those bound by it. Greater motivations are needed, certain motives have to be justified and section must be rewritten in light of other sections in order to maintain a balance between what is said and what is not said.
In other news, my bike - the gold steed of dubious origin - has befallen cyclical karmic justice and died. The wheels stopped working, which is a fundamental error in a bicycle so with due haste I went to an official second hand shop and did a part exchange - a transaction in which I felt less like a criminal's patron that when buying the first bike. The new bicycle is my treasure, a simple black-framed affair with razor thin tires (perfect for hills, terrible for cobbles) that has three, count them, three working gears. and brakes. And handlebars that don't come loose when you ride off a kerb. And a working dynamo! Let's hope this one lasts. It has been a week for the breaking of things; Cara's bike also broke this morning, the front wheel fell off. You gets what you pays for, I suppose.