"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>gizmo gets wet at midnight

>after first meeting gezim berisha (i get to the good stuff with him in a bit, trust me) yesterday afternoon, i absentmindedly continued my viennese audio tour through heldenplatz, josefplatz, and albertinaplatz, but the only thing that really grabbed my attention was the albertinaplatz granite corner.

two grantie statues were erected in the platz — the left one for the victims of the concentration camps, the right for all WWII victims, and both comprised of twisted and atrophied bodies struggling together to escape their turmoil. babies born to headless mothers. limbs puncturing stomachs. in between these statues was a small metal figure — a jew washing the ground with small metal brushes. during WWII, while onlookers spat and cursed at them, jews were forced to clean the ground with such small tools. the figure was encased in barbed wire. it seems half-finished, which symbolizes the realm of death these people always had one foot in. recently, someone had left two white roses on it, that had started to wilt, as my heart increasingly did. towering all of this was a large grantie slab upon which, after WWII, the austrian government chiselled in their constitution.

that was extremely powerful and i had to sit on the steps of the albertinaplatz fountain to guard my shaking hands.

i treated myself to the leopold museum‘s “die nackte wahrheit” exhibit with the most comprehensive collections of gustav klimt (how austrian), max oppenheimer, and egon schiele. i was fascinated how klimt’s works evolved from typical neoclassical portrayals of love, desire, and life with bland limestone colours, to the explosion of sex, metaphor, and vibrancy that his later work contained. i have his “details of medicine” on my apartment wall at home, no less.

what offended me was the dual convenience of egon schiele’s work. having self-branded himself a martyr to stave off criticism, his collection of victorian and edwardian woman lifting up their skirts to reveal their vaginas smacks of two non-artistic motives: #1 it suggests that when you look up our skirts, we’re all wet and engorged waiting for a man to take us, like every man’s fantasy and #2 since these women all have either bruised limbs, dark eyes, or blood-red labia (ie diseased labia), it suggests that our genitalia (and by extension, all women) are dirty whores beneath contempt.

in either realm, we’re being given the short end of the stick. martyr indeed.

but here’s the news you’ve scrolled down for

i met gezim at nussdorferstrasse station. i wore, of course, the yellow flower in my hair (which was recently described to me as a bosnian lilly), my indian shoes and bag, and a coal eyeliner smudged around my arabic eyes. gezim looked cock-tastic in a body-hugging blue shirt, and faded jeans. looking at him sans-mozart-wig was breathtaking. his blonde hair was gelled into curly locks that i loved crunching between my increasingly long nails.

my head rushed blood faster than an organ transplant.

a few doors down from the station was the Buddha club, adorned with velvet-red drapes, buddha statues raping the walls, odd thai artifacts, and, rather unfortunately, american top-40 music (think bon jovi, a-ha, 50 cent, j.lo, and the fricken theme song to baywatch blended with drunk michigan girls dancing on the bar . . . ew). but gezim, his friends, and i were raging. he bought me 3 amaretto sours, while they mixed it up between beers, salty gin concoctions, strawberry daquiris, and everything inbetween.

it was sweaty, packed, and loud, but we were uproarious. uncontrollable. uncontained. unbridled. all the good “un’s.”

he told me his friends call him “gizmo” like the gremlin. i told him i usually hit the floor after 2 drinks. he sang me a few bars of an italian opera, and then tickled the ivories in the basement. i told him he looks like orlando bloom.

he laughed and dropped his head in his hands, “everyone tells me that! it’s crazy, do i really look like him?”

i quickly inserted my cunning suave, “no honey, he looks like you.”

the moment we shared right then and there sealed the deal.

i want to give you all the details of what happened next, but my mother recently admitted to me that she found my blog and reads it daily, the little snoop.

so i’ll just say this: gezim now has a chipped tooth, and i’ll be throbbing for some time.

if you could see me now, you’d bitch-slap my stupid smile right off my face.

i leave vienna tomorrow for paris, so i took in as much wandering today as possible, and hopefully a little more tomorrow before my nightttime train. i hope to see gezim a couple more times, and maybe even in a month’s time when i make my way back through this area to catch my beirut-flight.

perhaps i was too harsh on egon schiele.

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2 responses

  1. Pingback: dedicated to Gizmo «

  2. Pingback: MERRY CHRIST(ine esti)MAS: 2015 Year In Review | The Spadina Monologues

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