peanut shells

peanut shells in a mug, red fixie on the dresser, oils paints curled in a cermaic bowl, an open computer terminal thing, a saw hanging on the wall. I'm using my roommates computer, he's this really good artist, ooh I love his room. He's crazy I like him! God I was sitting on the S Bahn, looping around my gorgeous ugly city, drinking in the sherbert sunset oozing over the dense gray clouds, just admiring everything.


Berlin is ugly, careless, poor, listles, edgy, brooding, punk, torpid, and fucking amazing.
I love pretty ugly things, for example I've been contemplating a nose piercing, not because it's pretty, because it's not at all. And I like that about it. It reminds me a little of a cow, something kind of meaty and repulsive, a little slovenly and provocative, and the whole concept of it, like a diamond booger?
I am intrigued.


Berlin doesn't try to be more than it is; no one here would describe it as romantic, fabulous, magical, dashing. But there is this type of magic that is twisted from the graffiti, the angry artists, the happy artists, the chic hairstyles and the organic boutiques. Berlin thrives, and everyone in the vicinity responds. You don't have a choice. It resounds with the life that youth brings, a rough sex kind of magic.





I saw a little Snow White board the Sbahn the other day. She was perhaps four years old, adorned in the classic yellow puffed sleaves of Disney's esteemed princess. Her nanny and older brother trumped in after her, looking a little less fabulous. She tried her best to keep her little buoyant skirt from floating up; a real lady. Best of all, they were all british. The boy asked his nanny about his costume. He was considering switching from some unknown to a doctor.
Adorable.