At the moment, I don’t have much control over what I will be writing in the next few months. I am not complaining: it is one of those situations that authors actually like, no matter how much they grumble. There is an essay on Leonard Cohen I am working on, and before that there is a personal story of the man who entered the UK hidden in a truck, after almost losing his life on a ship sailing to Lampedusa. And there is a non-fiction project, a major project I’m working on. The only real problem I can see in all this is that it is sometimes difficult to keep the projects in their own mental space. Sometimes Lili Marlene wants to board the ship, whose captain is not very good in triangulation, and…
Very quiet today, very subdued. Everything—colours, sounds, asphalt, faces, cars, traffic lights, wind, steps. I am driving with Keith Jarrett playing Köln Concerto and the images roll slowly across the windshield. Popcorn and pop. 3D glasses. Very artistic film this Sunday. Anything that is not about me is bothering me.
Once I’ve been jamming after hours in an underground club in Split, when a group of sailors from the American Sixth Fleet arrived. Three of them joined me on the stage and together we performed On the Road Again and Walk On the Wild Side. Walk was better, and then I left the stage, because the guys were too good for me. But I did get their respect, and I was told that the Sixth Fleet will never attack the place where I live.
There has never been another song that better describes Manhattan than Perfect Day. I mean the sound of it. There is the quiet beauty, and the underlying pain, and the glorious, burning despair that one finds in Manhattan in October.
I watched Lou Reed’s concert only once, in Toronto. It was so straightforward, so unassuming. It was a lesson on how to share one’s art. Simple: you have something to say, so go on, stand before your audience and say it. Nothing less, nothing more.
First there was Berlin, then it got destroyed, than Lou made Berlin, then Berlin reappeared.
Oh, such a perfect day, I’m glad I’ve spent it with you…
That is love.
Going back, after a long journey, a long absence, is sometimes harder than simply staying away. The world is full of those who had been only a few steps away from home, and then saw their room through the evening curtains and just turned around.