Sipping from a bottle of Asahi Super Dry and peering from the window of Wagamama down on Plas Roald Dahl I pondered the congruity of this place with that place and wondered if this is finally the right place. Is it here in Europe, or there in the Flat Empty Dead Centre?
TCB looked up from her ebi raisukaree with a wry smile. She knows me all too well. Can I ever be happy in any place? If this were London, or Marrakesh, would things be any different, she asked. Perhaps they would. Perhaps they would not. Certainly not Marrakesh, where Scotch and phở tái are rare like thunderstorms. If found, consumed in Sangsara flight and then lost to memory. Place is place. I can hold myself together in this one.
Later as she played delicately with coconut reika and I nursing nihonshu we wondered what will become of us in this place. It is hard to see from this place what our reality will be.
That reality will involve words, although I am stalled in them at the moment. Beijing and London Pride pull me from them. I seem incapable of focusing on anything else. No words can grow in this. I am happy to let them rest for a while. When TCB returns to her routine I will return to mine.