Solace...
Sitting on the sofa, eating a slice of fresh (yummmmmmm) bread, thinking about my fifth full month abroad and how I can't now imagine returning to the States under any set of circumstances, save those presented by a serious family emergency (or special celebration), or a tour. Germany isn't Bali, but neither is it West Fuckville, USA. This place has its tendrils about me, and, as my friends are painfully aware, I enjoy a good slow squeeze...
I yearn to use German more often, to master it, or at least wrestle it to the ground with some measure of fluency. At present, any local two-year-old knows more than I.
And, most of all, I want to belong. It's a strange goddamned transition, but it's happening, and it won't be stopped. It's affecting the course of my music, my posture, the turbidity of my dreams. I can look CP square in the eye and tell her I love her without a shred of dobut. It's just fucking lovely here, despite expected urban flecks of squalor, incivility, or inequality.
Ma, I love ya, but I won't be over for lemon cake on Sunday...
TS
I yearn to use German more often, to master it, or at least wrestle it to the ground with some measure of fluency. At present, any local two-year-old knows more than I.
And, most of all, I want to belong. It's a strange goddamned transition, but it's happening, and it won't be stopped. It's affecting the course of my music, my posture, the turbidity of my dreams. I can look CP square in the eye and tell her I love her without a shred of dobut. It's just fucking lovely here, despite expected urban flecks of squalor, incivility, or inequality.
Ma, I love ya, but I won't be over for lemon cake on Sunday...
TS
Comments