why do they call it writer's block?

and who the hell are "they" anyway?

it boggles me that i can't think of anything to write.

i've just immersed myself in the hallucination induced architecture of barcelona.

i ate parisian food cooked by artists and drank beers in the land of brauen.

we drove in a parade of hundreds of multicolored lilliputian cars.

we wandered through berlin's bombed out artist's studios and pressed our cheeks up to The Wall.

i battled with european public pay phones and conquered their various numerical assignments.

we made friends with the japanese-dj-photographer-sushi waiter from new york who spoke like a homeboy and cradled his pinhole cameras like they were his babies.

ballets were danced before us at exclusive private performances in the inner workings of the versailles.

we laughed at so much bad white german mtv hip-hop.

bums on the streets of paris drink better wine than i drink at the comforts of my own dinner table.

i visited the loreley.

we slept in a castle on the rhine and wandered through the ruins in the morning.

we spent a darkened claustrophobic hell with strangers on a train.

i ate eggs and toast under the close surveillance of the breakfast nazi.

i bought a vintage portable turntable that runs on 'd' batteries at a flea market in paris.

i nearly died from the cigarette smoke of everyone around me.

i encountered no racism.

the stringed sextet played vivaldi in a church hundreds of years old.

dirty postcards were mailed.

i drank the water.

i ate three hour dinners more often than i would like to.

i was disappointed.

i was ecstatic.

but i can't figure out what to write.

 

 

future | retro

all words (c) filmfatale industries 2000