10 March 2020
I am a squirrel falling through the air.
I found a card today with a picture of a flying squirrel and bought it. It’s one of those lovely old-fashioned nature prints. The squirrel in the image is twisted on his journey to fully extending his wing flaps so he can glide.
Context #1: I really owe someone a thank-you card, and this person lives with my two cats, one of whom is an accomplished murderess who has brought flying squirrels into the house alive. (Why alive? So she can show off her hunting skills as she chases it around the house. The reality of the situation: two humans must run around the apartment with tupperware containers, attempting to catch the squirrel the cat has completely forgotten about because naps.)
Context #2: The existence of flying squirrels in New England is a well-kept secret. They are nocturnal, so unless you’re David Attenborough with a night-vision camera, you won’t ever see one fly. They are the coolest animals ever (amazing wavy furry skin flaps on the sides of the animal inside the Tupperware). They don’t properly “fly,” but rather, through the infinite magic of nature, they have evolved to spring from the side of a tree high up in the air, plot their trajectory, and unfurl their side flaps with perfect timing in order to make it to the next tree. They can glide in this way up to 90 meters. In transit, they appear to be a one-dimensional flat animal with tiny feet and a head. Perhaps a small tail.
Context #3: A quotation I have been relying heavily upon since my departure from the states and the complete loss of everything familiar except what’s in my suitcase and the contents of my soul:
“The bad news: You’re falling through the air.
The good news: There is no ground.”
–A Buddhist whose name I can’t remember but wouldn’t be able to spell anyway.
Thanks to a gentleman (with a kitten I wanted to steal, cat withdrawal is biological) who gave me the nicest facial over the weekend (charged extra. Had to re-do makeup), I have currently in my wallet just enough cash to pay for my visa. Buying this card and a new pencil as well was a splurge today—a fiscal indulgence (jesus christ how the mighty have fallen) that felt justified, because a client had materialized for that evening. He seemed a good prospect. He bailed one hour before the date was to begin. (I swear to fuck one half of all of my bookings bail. Fucking figure it out, boys.)
Therefore, I have now just enough money in my wallet to pay for the visa.
The visa is the prerequisite to register as a prostitute.
The registration (risky as it is, see prior posts) is the gateway to a career as either an agency courtesan or a bordello, with or without spa attached (or a club or dungeon…sky—or basement—is the limit because Berlin is magnificent), thus financial stability for the first time in my adult life; hence, peace of mind I have not yet known. Either way, I have been dreaming of being a fille en carte ever since…well, I actually have no idea. Years. A fucking long time. Since before I knew the German prozzie system. Perhaps since I ever was exposed to the idea of a brothel and thought, as a young person, “That looks excellent.” This desire predates Ernestine.
Present circumstances rankle because Ernestine’s brand is expensive. Luxe. I daresay, decadent. I have projected this in all my publicity for 6 years; it is only since the anti-FOSTA fight began that I let the curtain open and told Twitter and clients and anyone who could listen that I am not okay, rent is due, there’s no food in the kitchen, and some jackass just cancelled. That was rent. Fuck.
The cancelee in no way could know that that gig at his hotel was my wiggle room for, you know, food, medicine, etc.; my non-visa money; a lifeline, in short. But he cancelled.
My cancellation policy is unenforceable in this country. With an hour and a half’s notice, his 150 euros should have been electronically departing his bank and trundling into mine as we speak. However, there is no accountability for such things unless one is under the umbrella of an organization, such as an agency—which requires papers.
On Thursday, I had a consult with the lovely woman who is helping me put together my artist’s visa application. The bureaucracy here is unbelievable. There were twelve different categories of documents—not individual documents, mind you—categories of documents, each requiring multiple pages of Why I’m a Good Candidate to Contribute to the Artistic and Financial Vibrancy of Berlin. I busted my ass, working through continual insomniatic and existential exhaustion—from the moment I left her office until last night (Monday), when she informed me that their translator was not going to be available on Tuesday. Um, crestfallen.
There was no way it was going to be a fun experience. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to buy a 2-euro bottle of sparkling wine the moment I get my visa (that part of being in Germany reifies my life decisions). However, because the Auslanderbehörde (foreigner’s office) does not have an open appointment until this time next year, one’s only option is to arrive at their office around 3 am, and then join the queue to wait until the office opens to see if they have appointments available that day. (How does one look like a gorgeous, fascinating, has-her-shit-together artist when leaving the house at 2am? That part I have yet to devise; and for those of you who think I simply roll out of bed looking like the photos you see of me on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, my website, and about 10 different ad sites, I hate to disabuse you, but magnificence is time-consuming).
However: Today was the day I was supposed to get up at 1:30am. Today was the day I was supposed to, around lunchtime, be a documented worker according to the German authorities. But my translator fell through.
“But everyone in Berlin speaks English!” you might say. This is kind of true. However, in lock step with Theresa May’s self-deportation policy (she didn’t invent it, she just said the quiet part out loud), in which government entities raise the bar to a near-impossible standard for acquiring legal status in a foreign country, the system is very conscientiously designed to encourage self-deportation; hence, although the people at the Auslanderbehörde probably speak English, it is my belief that they are specifically instructed not to do so. Hence, going without a translator is shooting oneself one’s the foot. (I need those to do ballet.)
What now? Thursday. 3am. 2am if I can muster it. At 7am, one is issued a number or turned away, depending on how close you are to the beginning of the queue.
I hate asking other people to be somewhere at 7am. That is inhumane.
I, however, consider such night-owl behavior as absolutely fine. (Yes! I’m fine with it!! I really am!!!) It’s my dream. Climb every fucking mountain.
In contemplation today between my therapist’s office (that shit is not getting covered by Cigna—yes, I crossed a motherfucking ocean to end up with fucking Cigna) and the beauty salon where a Brazilian woman gave me a Brazilian wax (fun coincidence), I have concluded the following about why I seem to have virtually endless reserves of grit in this situation. The recipe:
33.3% Sicilian (a fiery temperament not prone to roll over and let them win);
33.3% ballet training since the age of 7, which required pushing myself to a place beyond pain, beyond exhaustion, and close to vomiting from exertion—hence, my tolerance for plunging into seemingly impossible situations is just part of my work ethic;
33.3% wonderful humans who have provided the metaphorical duct tape and glue that have held me together body and soul (most of the time). They reside on multiple continents.
Oh, and faith. I seem to have that too. In spades. Blind, completely unfounded optimism.
As my friend Q. said, when I asked her,
“Activism is so draining. How do you work full time and still do this?” Her answer:
“Because the dream of what could be is SO beautiful, I can’t not put everything I have into trying to achieve it.”
I believe in her dream. I absolutely do. I think it’s possible.
Otherwise, I would not be here.
Fondly,
Ernestine