I’m mostly missing my tiniest toenail. No need for pity. I imagine it adds to my mystique. I blame my mother and her woefully scrappy excuse for pinky nails. My own small scraps of keratin make a debut once every few weeks, hang around for a spell, then skitter away. The glamour is almost unbearable. My wife realized two months into our marriage that my pedicures were two tenths a sham. Red polish painted onto the skin spot where pinky toenails might be. But I already had the ring on my finger. Snowed her good.
I got a half whistle from a tan Ford Taurus yesterday. Like I was the dubious protagonist in a Louis CK skit. Tired man beat down by life, seeing a late 30s lady waiting at the crosswalk. It’s 2:30 on a Thursday, he’s driving by, hey the window was already down. What the hell. “WOoo…” the half hearted whistle trailed away, lost in the paunch of his burrito belly. So many missed opportunities in my life.
Thank god he didn’t know about the cyclical alopecia in my eyebrows.* Every three weeks the poor dears drop out like flies. I might not have gotten any whistle at all. His gaze averted as the 2002 Tauras silently rolled by. Thank god for brow pencils. I’d be a complete shut-in.
*theoretically cyclical alopecia only happens to dog flanks, but I’m a firm believer that the irregular patchy spots of my brows are symptomatic of a latent onset syndrome.
I love Prague. It sings in my bohemian heart. I imagine it’s awakened my slavic roots. Or maybe I just love the fact I can navigate the public transport with more ease than San Francisco’s MUNI. This city that feels like home.
I’m roaming the streets and museums, bundled in winter wear, feeling free. The grey sky has no hold on me. I’m alive. Cool rain and snowflakes affirm the inevitable sense of soaring. No matter that I have the lag. It’s physical, not mental. And for that, we can all be grateful.
I’m not even scared of eating at the hotel buffet these days. I don’t imagine the staff eyeballing me, curiously upset at my existence. I have shit to do.
I go each day to see art. To have this dawning realization that people make weird shit because weirdly it feels good. Just the simple act of being willing to create, that action in and of itself is artistic. All that is required is the willingness to create. Not the willingness for it to be the best, or the willingness to do it with a guarantee. Of something. Nope. The only gettouttajailfreecard you get is the fact that it’s done. You’re welcome, you.
*3 days later*
I don’t even remember writing that. I forget things so soon it seems. In my defense, it’s been a busy three days, but still. I’m in my 30s, not a convalescent home. Today I got out my voice recorder because I’ve been having these fucking proclamations ringing through my head. They feel hilarious and important. Like I want to share them, but with who?
I ate dinner tonight, roast duck with honey glaze and these peculiar berries. So heavy it felt like my tummy had migrated east, started a new republic. We walked home, the cold air snapping against us. It feels militaristic, this cold. The sharp edge of it keeping time with my steps.