...to not go to one's first class are myriad. Perhaps one is sleepy. One could have a hangover or perhaps one has not done ones homework. Rarely does one skip class because every time one takes a step and transfers ones, granted rather substantial, weight to ones left foot they inhale sharply and have the distinct desire to collapse to the floor and then, perhaps, cut off one's left foot.
This is the kind of pain that convinced me in Brno that my foot was broken. And as bad as it was there with trams and miles of cobbled street to walk, there is a substantial difference. There, I had a balcony and grand books and music right at hand. There I could prop up the offending foot, relax, and watch the sun move across the sky, drinking wine because I knew no better, using the inhalations brought by pain to drag on cigarettes and do further harm to my body.
Most importantly, then and there I had Jesse and Andrew. There I had others, Jess Michael and Richard and every one else. As bad as my foot hurts right now, it's not entirely unpleasant. It reminds me of KFC brought from the middle of town, carried back tramwise and cooling because standing made me want to cry. I remember wrapping my foot with toilet paper to keep the packing tape from sticking to my foot, making an ace bandage from whatever was handy, all so I could get my foot into a shoe and hobble into town for fourteen degree beer.
Lots of time on hand, among all this, to read.
I don't think it's adverdant (is that a word?) that Jesse keeps giving me books with characters that take pictures of people who do things I aspire to do, but that's how it is. The Ground Beneath her Feet (which he didn't really give me, but he definitely got me to read it, and provided the copy I used) is about a photographer who takes pictures of the other main characters, incredible Indian rock stars. I have a four track, now, by the way.
Mao II is about a photographer who travels the world to take pictures of writers (among other things, of course). It makes me wish I were a better photographer, it makes me wish I were a better rock star, it makes me wish I were a better writer. It feels like all this is some subtle kind of encouragement from Jesse, and I know he bought me that KFC, too.
And Andrew carried it. And as horrible as the idea of KFC seems now, it's the thought that counts. Happy 2 weeks through the six weeks of winter predicted by the groundhog. It's sixty degrees and NYC stole my blizzard. I need more indomethicin.
MUSIC: sorry about dresden: somewhere there's snow