waiter—the backstroke
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Even if the whole (self-styled?) Hamburg art-scene queen writes a thinly-veiled autobiography and presents it to you her adoring public stance is part of some larger, lifelong performance, that doesn't at all change the fact that the only people who truly understood were part of a small group of insiders.
I lived forward. I never plugged in. I took what I needed. I visited no psychiatrists. I contracted no cancer. I saw light in the darkness. I had a fire in/under my ass. I looked toward the sun and the stars. My antennae were on.
That sounds a lot like "Tune in. Turn on. Drop out." to me, and strange coming from someone belonging to the post-postwar generation. What is the difference, exactly, between "Tune in. Turn on. Drop out." and "Ever tried. Ever failed. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."? A great deal of difference, actually. And yet. Perhaps Tim Leary was more punk than hippie all along.
There was only one piece of ice in my Old Fashioned, and it was a giant cube. The rushed currywurst and french fries before that were just that, rushed.
At some point, I noticed a dead fruit fly in my cocktail. Likely, it had been released from the melting ice cube. I fished the fly out, wiped it onto the cocktail napkin, and then absentmindedly licked that finger.