What I was doing writing about Berlin

So. One thing I was doing. Amongst all those other initials. Incidentally. Do you have to have at least two letters to call them initials? I don't really care if you do. Because that's what those lucky letters are. Initials. The beginnings of names. Dancing letters. Dancing and fucking. We like that mix.

So. Like I was saying. One thing I was doing amongst those initials. T. Especially him. But I'll get to that in an entry or two. But also T² and W². Especially them, too. They're coming to Paris this weekend. Yea! Din din at the house in leather and German and who knows what else. B, too. And especially him, too. We had Thai food with him last week. No tinkle-dinkles to be seen. That's the way he wanted it. Just sticky rice and conversation. And his smile and his gaze and his humor. Those are the ones that were there especially. Even if, once I was writing, their bodies weren't. There. They were. T and T² and W² and B. D and V, too, but we didn't make it to Sleazy Madrid so they've receded a bit onto the horizon. J-F. Him, too. But he comes with a sigh. There we all were. Dancing and fucking. Loving witnessing loving. Not over it yet. Neither the loving nor the witnessing loving. Going at it. And then written down.

Who knew? Who could ever know? Before writing. There I was with all those initials. Initiating. Fucking and dancing. Dancing and fucking. And who knew? I was waiting for writing.

So. That's one thing I was doing. Dancing and fucking with those bodies that will have left those initials. Waiting for writing. Without knowing. That I was expecting. Though suspecting. Obscurely, as the French sometimes say. I'd have something to say to you.

But another thing. I was doing. Dancing and fucking. Was forgetting that my father was dying. I know this for a fact. That I was forgetting. Because my last night in Berlin. Though I was trying. I was having trouble falling to sleep. Lying down. Couldn't get myself to fall. To sleep. Getting up. Tossing. Turning. Smoking. Thinking. About all those bodies. What they'd initiated. Though they had no intials. Not yet. All the dancing and fucking I'd been doing. A! Grosse Schlange. Incapable of forgetting. All I'd been doing. And sleeping. Sleep-deprived I. It was that last night all I was needing. Sleep. Sleep. Focus on sleep. Unable to fall. Until. Smoking. On the balcony in the cold cold air of early-Spring Berlin. All of a sudden I remembered. My father is dying. Sleeping. Thanks to that memory. Became a verb. I fell to sleep. Remembering. My father was falling.

But another thing I was doing. Fucking and dancing and waiting for writing and forgetting and remembering and finally falling asleep. As if that weren't enough. Enough to be doing all at once. Was something I couldn't quite do until it came down to writing it down. For you. Writing it down. Pursuing my sidération with words addressed to you. Considering me with all those initials for you. I was consecrating something. And? Honey! It wasn't exactly a marriage. More, I hope, soon.