Sadly, no daisies of wisdom to toss before you, my porcine friends. Had a brief but soul-stripping chat with CG about the EN kephuffle tonight, in the freezing wind (May decided to turn from August to March yesterday) with coffee. To the effect (she said) that in friendship there is no justice.
Which is cold comfort.
I was fancying last week that I might move out into the country, since I've been idealizing conversations which took place outside, in summer, on green grass, looking away into the trees with no other people in sight. In my city, it is hard to talk with no people in sight. You have to close your eyes or lock the door.
Tonight's soundtrack: Gesualdo. Particularly fine are the numbers on violin consort rather than voices--even more disorientating. Alan Curtis, Il Complesso barocco.
Earlier today: MeShell Ndegeocello. Riveting.
Today's literature moment was brought to you by Laurence Sterne -- I embarrassed myself publicly (no, not really, I'm not that easily embarrassed) laughing my **** off at the description of Toby's Dutch Drawbridge and its Comick Destruction. And then my bus broke down.
Okay: usually I don't go gaga over commercial products, but I'm getting terribly fond of Clearly Canadian's "tr� limone". I'm not kidding. It really is called that. Isn't it awful? But I can't help it. I wanted lemonade today when the bus was en panne and there it was, in the fridge at 7-11, sweating slightly in its precious blue packaging. And anything named in fluent European is that much more desirable.
And it really is much better than the average lemon soda. Obviously, go out and get the real stuff when you can, but when you're out in the wilds, know that there exists something which is Sweet But Not Too Sweet to quench the discriminating thirst.
Besides, and I think this is getting to the nub of the issue, it reminds me of the first time I had it out in Northampton with KG, bless her heart. We drank Jack Daniel's like we were in college again, we watched Shakespeare in Love, we drove around at night in western Mass listening to A Little Respect on infinite loop, and then we drove around in daylight in western Mass looking at cows and listening to Cemetry Gates on infinite loop. I miss her. Why haven't I called her? So that (like the last time I didn't call her) I could keep her safely in the past where she could still be godlike and inexplicable? Or else maybe I just feel bad that I won't make time to visit her anyway.
But it's springtime and the feet get itchy. I want to drive, suddenly, and I never want to drive, find it ethically repellant, not to mention expensive and inconvenient. I want to drive out in the sun and listen to all kinds of Cheesy American music written by people who are still alive, or who at least would still be alive if they hadn't died too early.
Exercise to the Reader: take a car, preferably with a sun roof, open. Find a shitty cassette-taped copy of "Full Force Galesburg" by the Mountain Goats, fast forward, as you follow the access road to the first song on the second side of the tape, which should be "Weekend in Western Illinois", if you're at all paying attention; floor it; merge into an open highway, (shades on?) crank the fuckin' volume and press play. Gives me chills.
de vostre Alte�e le tr�shumble serviteur,
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