Perhaps today will be different,
I’ll stop waking up to darkness,
I’ll smile until I believe it,
I’ll keep a stuffed doll in my pocket,
I’ll do somersaults under gray skies,
And think of butterflies when I’m blue.

For the pre-New Years Eve was dressup gathering, this was my Ken doll. I dressed him, jujjed him, and made him pose for my enjoyment. After years of calling him gay, it must be asked, who called who what?

Sometimes while listening to a perfect tune at just the right time I wish I had a soundtrack, someone to follow me and set the scene.
They’d carry a steelstring, they’d strum it just right, they’d amplify my thoughts, dig past my cold face and tell my secrets.
I’d never turn back to face them, for fear of scaring them away, or admitting that they’re right. I’d hide my face from them, I’d keep them guessing, but they know me, the harder I try to hide the sadder the song they’d play.

The bar quiets in increments, quanta of sound, people leave, taking smoky air with them through the door.
The wave of sound and light that permeates the room, bouncing, breathing, resonating, exclaiming, standing and crying loses texture like overtones as people walk out the door.

I saw it today. I was blinded by blue above, and a blanket of rolling white below. The plane ascended through layers of gray, clouds like pastry, a spectrum of rainy filo. The blue up above was inviting. I miss it now on the cold gray ground.

The only way to identify the place as number 74 was the peice of paper with the number sharpied on, taped to the wall.
Under an arch and into the dark deserted courtyard, we found our way in by following a series of sketchy figures, each one brooding, each one suspicious of our presence.
As we entered a girl with angelic blond curls stopped us, spoke to us, and I watched mystified as my friend accepted her words. I thought we were in trouble. Then he translated,
“We can pay 2.50 or roll the die and pay what we roll, six gets in free”,
“I’m rolling!”
I rolled a one.
Inside was the basement of a bank, complete with vault. The ceilings were low and the smoke very thick. The people kept to themselves in a very german way. The music was absorbing, the mood was calm. I felt like a part of something special and saw myself as a Berliner and it felt good.

I was mistaken for Israeli again today. In a north African restaurant in Berlin I asked for a pita with my hummous and was given a suspicious look. After a while he asked “are you Israeli?”
“No, no I’m from Toronto…Canada”
“Because you asked for pita, only in Isreal they say pita”
“Oh. What do you say?”
“We say bread.”
“I see.”
and later
“I have friend, he plays (hand motion, some sort of flute or violin)”
“ah.”
“He is from Toronto,”
“uh huh. cool.”

Later he charged me three euros(wow)and the mint tea was on the house. But I think it was because I visibly loved and continuously praised this dish, and not because he called me an Israeli.