I love you and I hope it helps and I hope we can talk more soon, even if it doesn't help. 

All my skimping (and my parents' unending financial kindness) has left me with $5,000 in the bank and two weeks till payday. I only mention this because my parents bought my laptop. That's the only way this makes mathematical sense. I don't know how I feel about this.

Also, upon reviewing my finances, I realize I could spend. And I got this ad for a website called Wish that ships clothes on sale internationally. But because I'm in Korea, all the clothes that pop up are the clothes popular in Korea. And men here are pretty...fashionable. And flashy. I don't think I can pull of flashy. But I kind of like how the clothes look on the mannequins. But they seem like too much of a hassle too. I'm being neurotic about clothes.

I couldn't wear this. But I wish I could right now and I'm not sure why. 

These are the scores I like to see, but still disappointing (especially that problem solving weak-ass shit). 

But the games are definitely rigged. The tutorials for each are mandatory the first go and they start you at level 1 where you score 20 points or something menial compared to later levels where you get 1,000 points. There are a set number of rounds per session so wasting time with these low levels is bollocks. The memory matrix games starts you in a 2 x 2 square where you have to remember the position of one square. Hooray you did it! Then you move up to 1 square in a 3 x 2, then 2 squares in a 3 x 2, and so on until you're half way through the game with barely 1,000 points! Later games, I'll get 36,000 points. Some games even require them to be played two or three times before you're at a stage where it's challenging. 

Those complaints aside, it was still quite a while before my memory was above 50th percentile. But the rust has been shaken off and I'm getting back into form.

Before I took out the trash

As a writing exercise, I took the sight of my trash and exaggerated it to interesting proportions. From the description, I could extract four sections to use in stories as if left as a single chunk, it's too much to bear. But it worked my ability to imagine from memory, to alter reality, and to use concrete nouns and verbs to set a certain tone (one of disgust). My actual garbage is not this bad, hopefully it's never been this bad, and it's been since emptied.

The pizza boxes piled high hid the trash bag. But the bag was split and spilt. Soda stuck the floor and a used Q-tip was trapped and colored brown. Syrup or ear muck? Leaves from broccoli, carrot peelings, and the grisly bits of pork spattered the wood floors and rotted. The bright letterings of a potato chip bag was legible through the thin plastic bag. Ripped underwear still smelled of ass crack, but that was the more pleasant scent tangled in its fibers—now rot, mold, and last week’s supper emptied from the catch fouled it. McDonald’s bags contained other trash, gathered from beside the pillow, but the bag had reeked when brought home and the chilled air had not dampened the smell. The toppings of a double quarter pounder were scraped by napkins but had missed the opening of the bag and slicked the sides of the plastic. Ramen, Kit-Kat, and ice cream sandwich wrappers blew when the door opened. The hand-vac was full and needed another to suck off its dust. The battery was dead and the charging chord exposed and frayed. Wet naps, browned from use, wadded in the bottom of the bag, keeping its space spotless and soggy. 

I love you. 

Writer's Block

I've never admitted to writer's block. I've always been steadily productive when I wanted, though I was often lazy or discouraged. Writing is hard when the idea isn't fresh and it took me much longer to finish my first novel than it should've. I finished the first half in a few months after an unusual episode of Bones inspired me, the rest in spurts over the next year. A large chunk was lost to computer troubles. It was fifteen pages, probably. They were good pages. And it was nearing the end of the story. And I had just gotten to Wales. So I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for my lost pages before starting NFG and then finally finished Ben Dau. I still think it's a great piece of angsty supernatural schoolyard adventure, but I can see why it never got really accepted. You tried to tell me when that scamming agent accepted it that it was genuine. Remember? I cried twice that day.

Spade petered out. Too little action, too much nostalgia, too much other stuff. The Blogger lost steam when I realized the plot was trivial and shameful. Let's Write Right was a lot of work to type up the awful story, type line by line suggestions and revisions, and have no one appreciate it. And eventually NFG suffered for it. It was already suffering from the start of the second book. I should've ended it with TK having to decide whether to trade his life for Stan's or some other major moral choice, not introducing Sven and continuing on till eternity with plans for demons, psychics, and betrayals. Too much Hollywood action, not enough character-driven story.

Then the whole sub shitstorm. I should just get over that, I know, but it hurt. What's safe to write? What's going to get me fired? What'll be misunderstood? What'll be unappreciated? What'll matter? I'm not much for writing controversy, but I wasn't hesitant to go with an idea because it might be morally questionable. Ben kills his best friend, by accident, to end Book 1 of Ben Dau. TK jokes about the carnage of his corpse.

And I'm not consciously afraid of that stuff, but I feel like everything I put down is boring, safe writing. I don't know what to write. I had brilliant idea for something for you too so I hope I get past this. Sorry I don't have a hint. 

We were talking about feelings in dreams earlier and I've never had a dream of crying, but a few nights ago, I had dream where all I did was taste something. I'm not sure what the drink is, but I'm told it's a yogurt drink. It also tasted like apple juice.

I have silly weird dreams. 

Ch. 8

Nele and I walked the wide streets after our run. She strolled. I hobbled. I had twisted my ankle on a downslope because the heather was slick. It was still early and only the buses were running, sputtering down the streets, backfiring, making me, as an American, jump though the country had no guns. No one crowded the streets, gawking at the oil stains of stone buildings or snapping pictures of the cock atop St. Giles. There was no one with change so even street performers stayed in bed. It was just us on the wide street. We were constantly bumping hands.

“Is it much farther to your place?” Nele asked. She had stopped to wait for me and for the WALK light though there were no cars. “We should really get you off your ankle.” The light turned and she went ahead.

“About a mile back the way we just came.”

She turned around in the middle of the street. “Then why didn’t we stop?” She came back for me and by then the light flashed so we stayed on the corner.

“I need to check the post office for a package.”

“Did you order something?”

“I sent something.”

“Where’d you send it?”

“Here.”

“But you’re here.”

“And I should check on it while I’m here.”

The light turned back to WALK. She didn’t walk. “Why didn’t you just give it to the person?”

“I don’t think they’re here.”

“So why’d you send it here?”

                                                                                                          

“Because they might be here.”

“They might be a lot of places!”

“The package has been mailed a lot of places.”

“Why don’t they pick it up?”

“I don’t know if they know it’s here.”

She gave up. She just walked off across the street, despite the light.

The clerk at the post office asked me how I was today and I told her I needed to check on a package. She asked for my name and I told her the recipient’s name, which was foreign enough that she didn’t know it was a girl’s name especially since the name derived from an alchemic movie star that no one in the Western world knew of. She rummaged through some unclaimed packages and said, “You’re in luck. Here it is.”

“That’s too bad.” I walked out. She stared at my back and then the door that closed until she shook it off and stuck the package on the shelf.

~

Me: I’ve got something for you.

: why

i’m not in germany

Me: Me neither. I finally got down to France. Like actual out and around. Paris has a lot of people. Lot of smokers too, but I think the UK was worse. Something like 70% of girls 16-18 smoke in the UK. That’s what I heard anyway.

: i’m not in france either.

Me: They have post office’s here.

: i’m not giving you the address

i couldn’t check the post even if i wanted

Me: You’re not curious? I’d be dying to know what it is. Begging, offering sexual favors—but you’re not really the sexual type. I’d brush your hair. I know you don’t like massages. They always make you giggle, right? Am I imagining that you told me that once?

: No.

You’re right.

Why do you remember that?

Me: I remember everything you tell me.

Versailles was colder than Wales but better than Germany. There was no snow, but my breath came out in puffs. The narrow street was foggy with life. The buildings were four high with the first floor obviously businesses, cafes and shops, but the ones above were a mystery. The sandy walls were broken up by hundreds of windows. There were only two designs, arched or rectangular. The left side of the street favored arched and the right liked rectangular. I sat under the blue umbrella of L’Aquarium. Only my table had it and who else would sit outside a mostly empty café, just a foot-swing from the chalkboard Specials menu, when inside was warmth? Some blonde in a scarf joined the table. Everyone in France wore scarfs.

Me: Except your birthday. October 12?

: 10th

Me: Damn. I was off by one day last time. I guessed the 11th and remembered that was wrong, but forgot if I was over or under.

: 10/10

Like a perfect score

Easiest thing to remember

A pigeon weaved through the tables and got at my foot. Maybe it’d mistake my frayed shoelace for a worm. It was fat. It wasn’t afraid. I could’ve punted it down the street.

: What’d you get me?

Me: It’s a surprise.

: You can’t mail it.

I wouldn’t be able to check the post.

Me: I want to give it to you in person anyway.

My coffee was in danger of freezing. My teeth nearly cracked on the iced chocolate chips in my muffin. Neither were very good. But they were cheap. My laptop was low on power, but I wasn’t worried. As a kid, my friend the scientist, educated our lunch table on tricks to extend the power of a battery. The most obvious and assured way was to stick your AAs in the fridge, but let’s say you were on a car ride to Grandma’s and while you were over the river but not quite through the woods, your Gameboy died. A sure-fire way to get you through to Grandma’s without sleeping was sticking them in your pits, one in each.

: I’m leaving Austria tomorrow.

Not sure where I’m going yet.

Or how long I’ll be there.

They don’t tell me much.

But maybe I’ll tell you when it seems like I’ll be somewhere for a while.

I love you.

Thank you.

I had typed “I love you too…” and was adding her name when my battery warning popped up. I had 7% battery life, 20 minutes it estimated. The computer shut down before I could punch the six keys—her name, space, enter.