Today

Was not such a good day at the museum. My stories felt uninspired and the only person who responded basically ended up asking me out. Yesterday was better. I complimented a couple, in their sixties, on the way they were standing (relaxed intimacy, connected yet not restricting) and they looked at each other and smiled. They went on to tell me they were actually not together. Not right now at least. They used to date when they were thirty. For some reason they broke up, they didn't specify why, moved away from each other, and got married to other people. When they broke up however, they agreed they would get in touch again when they were both fifty. On her fiftieth birthday he called her and they met each other in London. After that initial meeting they would meet one weekend a year, without their spouses knowing. They seemed to genuinely enjoy every minute with each other. Which makes sense after you realize they only have 172800 minutes a year.

Missed Messages

Heading there now, it's 74 Tavistock, my phone is buggin, call Darrens. At Barbican Cafe. Come! We moved to a pub called Jugged Hare at 49 Chiswell St. Right next to Barbican. Come! Fuuuuck! Abort mission, tv here is broken...stay tuned. Portobelloroad and westway, place called la plaza Just got out of tube What messages? I guess not.*

*I never ended up going to these locations, since I received all of these messages three days later. London and I are not syncing up right.

Bad things

In chronological order: Broke off a relationship. Was late. Got yelled at by boss. An awkward moment with a visitor. Had drinks with friend. Got into a fight with him about a miscommunication and principles. He had wanted me to do something, and I didn't do it. I had disappointed him as a friend and colleague. He wouldn't look me in the eye. There were two other people present who obviously felt uncomfortable and started talking about the salty chocolate mousse. Phone ran out of money, so I couldn't get in touch with the person I was supposed to meet up with. Got home and started crying. My sister's roommate might think I am unstable. She might not be wrong.

London words

Yesterday I started working at the Tate Modern. And by work I mean run around, follow my own rules and tell people very personal things about myself. I started talking to two women about falling, being and wanting to be in love. I asked what they thought, or what their experience was. One of the women became flustered. The other woman looked at me and said shook her head. Then the woman started crying. Because I had no clue how to react, or how one was supposed to react to something like this, I just told her that everything would be alright. I sort of stroked her back a bit, in a desperate attempt to emphasize those obvious and supposedly soothing words. Of course I couldn't be sure, since I didn't know why she was crying and what her story was, but I figured it was almost always true. Unless of course the love of her life had just died and the chances of her ever finding anyone remotely as lovely are slim because she is an agoraphobe who is a mute who has an inherent fear of intimacy which took her former husband twenty years to break through. But let's not assume the worst. I am afraid most London days will be like this.

Break ups

Tonight a friend who had just been broken up with by his girlfriend abroad, was conflicted about whether or not to go see her. Either to make up or to say goodbye. Hearing about other people's break ups is painful. The things that are being said are always too familiar. Feelings are always conflicted. Words always become insufficient and meaningless. One moment they say it's definitely over, and then they send a text message saying: 'How are you doing, babe?' People are so scared of saying goodbye, they fool themselves into thinking they don't have to. Perhaps it's time for a universal break up flow chart.

Bag Index

Index of my bag as of September 17: 1. A book with traffic rules. 2. A receipt of a package delivered to Bernard Schechtman, the accountant I work for in New York. He had me send it to Great Neck, to a building which I suspect to be an elderly home. 3. Sunglasses. Not sure why. 4. A businesscard of a shop in Hum. Hum is the smallest town in the world. People there invented their own language too. This shop was the smallest shop in Hum. It sold moonshine liquors and homemade soaps. When we asked the man who worked there whether people actually lived in Hum, he said his girlfriend did. She lived next to the store. He had to commute every day from a larger town in the area. For some reason this struck me as very romantic. Even though it didn't make sense for the girl to not just have him live with her. Then again, being pragmatic is almost never romantic. Besides, maybe she had the smallest apartment in Hum. 5. A book about Cannibalism. (A novel about a man eating his lover. Written by a Belgian, obviously.) 6. Migraine pills. Always. 7. Change. Currencies: Pound (Stuck at Heathrow in October for 4 hours and had to do something. That something turned out to be spending money. Do not remember on what.) Kunas (Do not think I will need these any time soon.) 8. Paper handkerchiefs. Got these for free at a pharmacy in Kassel when I was buying nose spray. I have bought nose spray in every country I have ever been to. They've become useful souvenirs.

Topics

Dinner tonight: Pasta, with lentils, bacon, onion, garlic and tomato sauce. Other ingredients: A baby girl falling from the stairs. She has a bump, but seemed to be alright for the rest. A long conversation about Dutch politics (obviously). Would it be appropriate to disregard a party even though they get a lot of votes? Is democracy a positive thing? We spoke so loud one of the kids hugged his dad and told him not to look at me anymore. Also: Money talk. And a project we've been talking about for years. They have hours of footage of a couple traveling the world in the sixties bought at a fleamarket. We want to make it into a feature length film, with a voice over. (It's a couple who never had children, and who we, the filmmakers, don't know. What happens when stories aren't told? When a bloodline dies? Where do the memories go? etc.) We still haven't developed this film. Again. We've been talking about this for years. Perhaps some things are better conversation topics than anything else. Then we listened to music in silence for a while.