Tuesday, 8 July 2008

A small colourwheel turns slowly in the window opposite, driven by the light wind that replaced last night’s polite rainfall. I think the decision has been made for me, it has taken three weeks and is entirely out of my control. This morning spectrum, dressed in the lyrics of endless listening, turning and deep at both ends with the hue of dreams, tells me everything I need to know. Berlin requires me to stay for a while.

At some juncture, I need to work out how to earn money. At some stage I need to learn the language so that I am able to speak and understand simultaneously. At some point I need to be able to deal with the local bureaucracy and become a resident of the city on paper.

Indelibly, Berlin now is a part of me. The city plan is inked into my veins, a delta of sprawling vessels both navigable and provocative, each drawing me through areas of town as though I were a short breath and my very presence in these streets suddenly gave them life, a life that is present without me, but better with me. Some days, cities exist for people not in spite of them.

Perhaps the city does not matter? Berlin has a spiteful winter, I have been warned. Perhaps I would overstay my welcome. Perhaps better to return to gainful employment in the UK, bold with the adventures of another country, with a view to continue this relocation, to turn my self into a relocator. Vienna, Budapest, St. Petersburg, Lisbon. Further? Tel-Aviv, Marrakech, Darjeeling, Montreal, Mexico City. And these are just cities. There are forests and hills, there’s northern Scandinavia to think about, there are the uranium mines of Manchuria and the endless beauty of New Zealand. All of these are presented to me now as stories, the stories of others.

But of course there are narratives to write, now. Writing the future is unnecessary at this instant, given the blank page in front of me, given all those hours I have to fill until it is time to sleep again. Yesterday was a frantic succession of incongruously relaxed meetings, coffee under awnings in the waking streets, with talk of artistic politics, family origins and musical direction. This is still a holiday.