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the abandonment of cruelty
the green children
the vicar of megatokyo | 1 | 2
thrice great hermes
bwhah @ fwc, portland
xenomorphs @ fwc, portland
katamari @ fwc, portland
tokyo art beat @ superdeluxe, tokyo
full of pryde @ fwc, portland
psychometry ii @ arratia beer, berlin
psychometry @ exile, berlin
found photos @ fwc, portland
rom spaceknight @ fwc, portland
caleb hildenbrandt, 2012
tokyo art beat, 2009
pete toms, 2006
by Stanley Lieber
Friends had been trying to convince him for years that he should come to West Berlin. "It would be good for your art," they all said. Well, now he was here, and there was nothing going on. There was no scene. Had there ever been?
Maybe a scene wasn’t what his friends had been talking about, after all.
SL was up early to do his stretches. It went okay, but he thought he might skip the next session. The pain had inspired his reticence. Thus enlivened, he sat down with his tea and the newspaper. As usual, nothing was going on. What had he expected?
Most of the bars and strip clubs were closed, this early in the morning. Even the drug store and the VFW. Sometimes, someone would be working at the VFW during the day and would let him in anyway. No such luck, today.
For a city of three million (SL could scarcely believe such a small place could still exist), things were awfully quiet during the day. Where did these people go when they weren’t shouting in the streets? Also of note: the homeless were virtually non-existent—or at least, he almost never saw any. Maybe here they actually executed their war on poverty.
The town appeared to be run with strict, German efficiency.
No, there was no scene to speak of. As a consequence SL was left to make his own trouble.
That should have been easy, but it wasn’t.
From one end of the city to the other was a journey of about eight miles. SL walked it every day, trying to soak up anything that might make his recovery journal more interesting. Whatever it was his friends had been so insistent he needed to absorb, he wasn't finding it. His calves always ached but his health didn’t seem to improve.
He’d finally stopped bringing the data gloves. Along with his wallet, keys, and water, he had also chosen to leave behind all of his contraband gear. It was all too heavy. He never knew when he was going to have to try and outrun a giant pickup truck.
The traffic moved—and smelled—like a herd of animals. On their way to be slaughtered, SL assumed. He could only hope.
He hadn’t figured on spending so much time here alone, in this ridiculous little town.
Well, here he was. This was what he always said he had wanted, if perhaps not specifically these specific surroundings. There was no point in pretending he was here against his will. No one else was around, so there was no one else to blame.
SL drained the remainder of his tea onto the sidewalk and returned the plastic saucer to the sidewalk vendor.
The buzzing of cicadas put him in a strange mood.