Stockholm city library is quiet and calm. I’m emailing contacts and filling in research forms while my shirt sticks against my sweaty back like a plaster on a bruised heel. Stockholm is balmy and people move slowly on the warm sidewalks. Dutch tourist stand by street corners with over-sized city maps and comfortable footwear. I’ve been eating Italian gelato, spoke with an old Italian man concerning how much they were selling, his eyes were glittering when he explained the impact of the warm weather. Last night we went to a club under a concrete bridge, the most Berlin Stockholm ever gets.
Reading The Easter Parade by Richard Yates and am once again convinced that he is the greatest author ever. Read one of my own stories and saw problems everywhere. Yates say something with each sentence, I say less with ten. If only my back would dry, if only cooler air would draw over the city, if only these research forms would fill in themselves. But honesty tells me that even this will not get me closer to Yates. Still, he provides more inspiration than discomfort, more keys than locked doors.