Leonardo Boiko’s Diary

Now America obviously isn’t a real place, it’s the Land of Movies (just like Faërie or Avalon but these are powerless things of the past and America is a thing of the Now). Her unreality is clearly demonstrated by the fact that everyone speaks English right on the streets like all the time. As everyone knows, English is a language for movies and international communication; no real person speaks English the whole day. Further, the set is full of support actors you have to interact with, all two-dimensional characters thrown together in a hurry: the Arab cab driver, the Mexican maids, the angry fat cook and the kind old cook, the gum-chewing purple-haired cellphone-talking girl in the exchange booth, the cute “do you cut off the hands of thieves in Brazil” blondie airhead who was reading Eckhart (Toller, not Meister) because Oprah said it’s good and with whom I chatted idly my whole last flight, all the while hoping the plane would have a fatal accident so that I’d have an excuse to just kiss her already.

I wish I could get out and see some nearby fictional places like the South Mountain Park or Target’s or Radio Shack, but jet lag got a firm hold of me; every time I try to get up I throw up. I even threw up that bright pink fictional medicine for nausea, Pepto-Bismol; maybe it only works for pretend diseases? Now I need ask room service to get up here and clean pink vomit. Again.