I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
When I look out the window and see the birds flying across the harbor towards the snow-capped hills I think again, how the hell did I get here?
I took a walk on my own late last night, and the city was quiet. I strode past three blocks in the dark, and there was no one else outside, it was too bloody cold. Maybe it was my suicidal nature that made me venture out at that ungodly hour - I could've been mugged, raped, strangled to death, bludgeoned by an empty beer bottle, thrown out in a dumpster, drowned in the body of dead water. But I wasn't. I'm still alive.
At the bar an Irishman asked me where I'm from. A Viennese couple opened up to me and we had drink after drink after drink and I thought, holy crap this isn't a great way to live out my twenties.
I am on my own most of the time. It's a little terrifying; a little bit like death in training.
I look forward to the New Year. A man I've known for a few years has decided to brave the oceans for me, to come save me from my own insistence at solitude. I tell him, don't come, there is nothing here, and he says, there is you and that is enough. I almost melt but then I laugh out loud and tell him to save it till he gets here; romancing me on the phone will not get him lucky.
Last night I dreamt of Marina, nude in the snow and ice that blankets this city that is my temporary home, and I walked up to her and she disappeared - no puff of smoke, no thunder, no lightning - she was there and then she wasn't. I woke up and lit one, two, three cigarettes, pondering what the hell is it I've gotten myself into this time.
There are new friends, new attractions but the cold has made me sluggish and I just want to hibernate until the summer comes.
