Lingua Citadel

I work for a small nonprofit theater company; a theater festival in the Hague (Den Haag), Netherlands, inexplicably invited members of our company to a festival they are putting on but all the senior members of my small theater company got lockjaw syndrome and painful-butt disease so by the luck of the draw I got to travel to the festival with my colleagues and coworkers Breadstixxxxx and Quintiple-Deez, I’ve changed their names to protect their names, I haven’t slept in 20 hours, these last three clauses are true.

Over the next five or six days I will be “liveblogging,” that is to say “breathlessly typing up my pointless notes” on my time here at the pointlessly occluded roman a clef literary music festival that I am simultaneously at and not at in the Hague. War crimes joke.

We landed two hours ago. I tried for fifteen minutes to sleep but sleep never came. I won’t tell you if I went to the bathroom or not. (I did.) I have abandoned sleep, I’m going to just power through the evening and sleep with the Dutch. When they’re sleeping. I don’t mean have sex with them. I mean sleep when they sleep. I did sleep with fourteen or fifteen people on the plane, not in the bathroom but in the little aisle  between my row of seats and the cabin separator wall behind it, men and women, a few consenting children, I also made love to a couple handicap devices, like blind-person canes and arm braces.

HALF-ELF: [exhausted] No apologies for heavy/gross/fake-occluded-personal blog, right?

OTHER, FIERCER HALF-ELF: [hale] Right!

Breadstixxxxxx came over to say hi to me at my seat and had written on his hand in ink Dat kinkt geweldig which he thought from watching Flight of the Conchords with Dutch subtitles meant “That would be great.” He had a draught of drambuie after dinner. I drank nothing but water on the plane. The flight passed quickly as I read the entire New York Times and then an entire (complimentary) UK Guardian cover to cover in the first must have been four or five hours of the flight. Intensive newspaper reading on long flights is good: the aridity dries the paper as you read so by the time you land the newspaper has turned to a delicate, sloughed-off epidermal crinklesheet.

Guilt about air travel’s deletirious effects on the environment. Guilt about my going on such a fun-sounding junket-seeming trip despite the fact that I self-lobotomized at age 14 and have done nothing to deserve this hotel room and will do nothing but think about myself the entire time I’m here. Guilt about guilt, guilt about self-consciousness, guilt.

Ethical dilemma when obese Dutch woman and husband wanted me to trade seats with their son so he could sit next them in my aisle seat. “Is he sitting in a middle seat?” He was. “How old is he?” Thirty-three. I rejected their offer. I spent the rest of the flight in intimate contact with the giant woman’s elbow, other aspects of her right side. She ate everything that was put in front of her. I am also overweight, but not as much as she is. I also don’t have a 33-year-old Dutch son. I felt bad when, at the end of the flight, the flight attendant confirmed that she’d want a wheelchair to get out of the terminal. She could walk, nevermind, what

At baggage claim there was a stoner delegation from CA clearly engaging in marijuana tourism. They were gentle, fine. Four of them plus a guitar.

Juice bar in airport called Juggle Juice.

Sleep = Slaap

Het is half elf’s morgen = it’s 10:30 a.m.

Arts = doctor

two = twee

Lunch = Lunch!!!!

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