I’ve heard incoherent whispers in my dreams. Only when dreaming can I figure out the daunting words in the background, but I don’t remember what was said when I woke up. Maybe I’m getting too obsessed with that story of mine from 2006, in which the voice was Peter Pan’s – a fairy tale character that was teaching me how to fly.
Madame Butterfly pretty much inspired it. Blindfold the child so that it won’t see the tragedy, and it shall never learn the word tragedy.
Yesterday I watched the original opera show at the Royal Albert Hall. It was breath-taking, mind-blowing, heart-breaking.
The stage was beautifully egg-shaped. You had Cio Cio-san’s marvellous room surrounded by four ponds with bridge-like crossings built above the water in the centre. The lady who performed as Butterfly was brilliant, but she didn’t act naturally enough in some ways. And using the American flag to blindfold the kid was something I squinted at.
I had my blood taken today. Blood tests are exciting! I don’t mind needles; I just don’t like watching.
Also, I realised that many British doctors are female, and ALL of them have short hair. Are they trying to scare the shit out of me?! My doctor has short hair and totally reminded me of my former paediatrician. It was shocking, but I do like my doctor. She’s not a thorough examiner, though. Why am I to tell her what’s wrong with me? She’s supposed to figure it out.
“Your urine looks perfectly clear – all is fine!” Bullshit.
Shouldn’t I know my kidney by now? I need a urologist and maybe a gynaecologist, but they don’t seem to exist in this country. Or I’m not ill enough to get a transfer. The general practitioner and their nurses will take care of it, of course! This is as competent as they can get.
And I will keep drinking London’s metallic water.
I’m still wondering whom to give the sixth kiss – preferably some lips that don’t taste like poison. I remember touching Dan’s (fifth kiss) burnt tongue two years ago. He was also supposed to be third in bed, but it never happened. Shortly after that disappointment, I wrote the Absinthe rush, a blog post of confessions and one of the best titles I ever came up with. That was an attempt to say, “over and done with,” but it didn’t work; it never seems to work.
So I tried writing fiction last month, which helped a lot more.
Unfortunately, it’s not over yet—son of a bitch.
There’s only one week left before spring officially begins. I haven’t even prepared the farewell prayer yet, nor have I finished reading Hemingway. I haven’t been stalking nesting robins. I haven’t done shit all.
Only ladybirds pay me regular visits.
Sometimes I let them play around in my room. And sometimes I flick them out the window.
