Luggage

It’s one year and a half waiting for the train that takes me to Faro almost every week. The train is also almost always late, all the more so than the driving license - that my mother tried to pay me for decades ago, but which money I spent on my first plane trip to visit a friend in London. After her death, I tried to get a driving license in Berlin, but successive classes' postponements of the driving school, making the preparation for the theory test coincide, first, with a particularly exhausting prison-theatre production, then, with a crucial moment of the maximum exponent of my chronic escapism, made it impossible - therefore, a routinely occurring mirage. The train is consistently late, my attempts to get a driving license have only recently become so.

I was dreaming with my lover K. this early morning. We were sleeping in an impossible embrace when my mother woke us up in panic saying that there will be no more money after the notes in the jar are over. I passed by said jar, an imposing, chubby-black-colonial-like one filled to the top in a shop window, and it was extremely irritating that she caused us so much discomfort. He left silently, both of us sitting in a car, lately we met in some crappy neighborhood where he was staying by another lover. She was tending to a grave, her father’s I thought, but it was her ex-husband’s. I was going out with my ex boss anyway, when they were still a cis woman - it was a rock concert and I was so excited that I was literally levitating. My bones do still feel higher while sliding on the train’s bumps.

So I wait for the train for weeks on end, sometimes listening to other people's conversations repeated in all languages, but mainly in German, if not on loud mobile phones, or preferably to the silence, the birds, the wind and the insects. If the driving test examiner is the same destructive chauvinist next time, I'll have to take proactive measures, what a drag.