I cannot sleep.

I have no idea what time this will get blogged, but right now I’m sitting in front of my PC and it’s 1.25 a.m. Wednesday. The appropriate response would be to get pissed at this sudden bout of insomnia, but after the past few nights of evil dreams (and I don’t mean the cheerful Marco variety of evil either), this is almost a welcome respite.

Strange how everytime I can’t sleep, I just have to get up and write. Or spent an eternity before dawn rolling in bed. Some people read, others dress up as serial killers and reap. Me, I have to write.

Of course, having this damned online journal means I haven’t kept the paper version for over half a year now. I can’t think private thoughts; everything has to be public. Memory to me is something recorded, like history. I don’t think I can remember much of what occured this past year without these mundane blogs.

The emotions, however, I’m glad to assure you, get stored in a much safer place than my brain. Safer, but not necessarily more reliable though. The heart’s a fickle thing.

Anyway, since I am unable to slip into slumber, here’s a stab at recounting recent events. Dropped by Hadi’s last night. This might be oversimplifying the trip somewhat, considering I got spectacularly lost. Mostly cuz I heard precisely everything Hadi offered over the phone as directions to his place and chose to reinterpret everything by the light of my familiarity with the other side of the road.

Or, as Hadi put it, I basically heard what I wanted to hear.

We were joined in the monastery (it still kills me that Hadi stays in a monastery – how do those monks and nuns even sleep at night?) by Erich and Esther not five minutes after Hadi found me. E & E hadn’t had dinner yet but were eager for a final chat before Erich’s flight to NYC today. I managed to finish a litho of Erich’s fav Valkyrie for him, so that was neat.

Imagine how horrified I was upon learning that Hadi (who hates Memento) and Erich (who hates Nightmare Before Christmas) both hate The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring. “The story sucked,” said Herr Wehrle. Ga, ignoramuses all! Ga.

Fortunately, we all seemed to agree on American History X, so the evening was saved somehow. Even after Erich complained how Esther was sized like a midget and I defended her by saying that she was just like an Asian girl. He apparently was more offended by that idea than comparing his girlfriend to a dwarf.

Asian girls were a no-no for Erich, unless they happened to be white and blonde. Right.

Still, he is leaving. Being Erich, he plans to get drunk on board. Have I mentioned he doesn’t even know which airport he’s gonna land on? Which reminds me of anecdote Blue told me before he left for Chicago.

It was when he was in Prague recently. After meeting up with E & E for a bit, he upped and got to the hotel where he was to meet Chiara and Michael (the German one). They stayed at the Hotel Imperial, which from his vivid description of it, I discovered to be the same one I found when I was there. (As well as the Anagram bookshop; see Praha, March 2002.)

You know, the one with the huge bilboard of this hefty gentleman in a suit playing billiard and the warning KAVÁRNA. The orangey place. The one with the café with all the orangey tiles. Mike actually sat there for like three hours while waiting for Chiara and Michael to turn up, simply listening to good jazz. Bloody bohemian.

But anyway, back to the anecdote. He was asking the girl at the receptionist about the rooms the other two had booked. When he was unable to offer the complete details required, the girl took one look at him and blurted, “You don’t even know who you’re travelling with. You gotta be American.”

Which was a tad harsh, I think. Not exactly the manners one would expect from a classy establishment. But it does describe Blue, and in a tedious bit of association, Erich.

Seeing how I am now nowhere near my original course, let’s delve a little more into Blue’s Prague Experience. This one got me jealous. He told me how in restaurants, they always placed this bowl of day-old jelly donuts that you could purchase. Who would want to buy old baked goods, you ask.

Patrons with an inclination to throw said jelly donuts at each other and at other customers.

The three of them were actually in the periphery of one such jelly donut flingfest, with glassware shattering and female diners screaming the house down. One was expected to have a sense of humour about getting one’s white dress splattered with grape goo.

They call it a quaint Old World custom.

I call it a food fight.

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Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.