to create the habit of writing, irregardless of quality
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Geckos live in my apartment. Small and pale, they cling and move on the ceiling and the walls with their splayed sucker like feet. They make a distinctive popping sound that helps mark the passing of my time. The other place I have seen geckos is in the bottom of large bottles of rice wine, thus making gecko wine. This wine supposedly has all kind of medicinal properties, though its primary effect seems to get people wildly drunk. Recently at bia hoi, amidst the endless rounds of cheap weak beer, many bottles of gecko wine were ordered. The wine was poured into small glasses, perhaps two thumbs widths high, and knocked back in one after some incomprehensible toast. Eight glasses violently clinked together in almost well-aimed synchronicity, sending a small fountain of wine into the air and down hands, wrists and forearms. Repeat. In the collective consciousness of Gekkonidae I think they know the fate that awaits a minority of their family. The sound they emit is exactly like the sound of brain cells imploding.