Some chicks I took from a distance for basic are now sitting on this wooden walkway, against the red fence over which I and anyone can look downward onto the terrestriality of Freetown Christiania, and I can see the enormous intricate tattoos one of them has running the lengths of her thighs and that the other is sharing an apple with her dog. They’re just naturally that blonde; it’s not a choice they make that correlates to a bunch of other choices I might infer they make, too.
If I start to make these private musings public, perhaps some sort of THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS SOCIAL PREJUDICE warning will be in order. Or maybe just a note at the bottom that I considered it and ultimately settled on a note at the bottom.
I am in some club — café is in the name but it is not one — with Beto and Slim and some musicmates of theirs. Everything is smeary and loud and terrific, especially the audio in here, and Beto is telling me he learned to dance real good in his life in New Orleans. I see it. Am I writing? I think yes. It is a labor, but important. It is my meaning.
Earlier on the phone with Darwin, an idea happened — I know it was an idea — I wanted a piece of pizza and I told him that I needed to stop our conversation temporarily so I could go get a piece of pizza and when I rounded the corner in that Barri Gòtic piso with the interior all white like cocaine where we are staying, I guess, to where the pizza was, there was Aurelio taking a picture of a tattoo on his ankle of a piece of pizza — but I don’t know what to do with it. This is a great idea. I can tell.
