Song of the Week: Dirty Laundry.
It was like we were watching the dawn together through the slate gray rain as it fell in Chile. “How many miles away are we?” I asked. “Every mile,” he replied. I said, “We are the future, this morning.”
We had stayed up all night, sending music across three time-zones and updating our theories on the thinly coloured sky, how the sun was coming to find us, neglectful of our beds in the light of our company, caught in the web at it’s late night best.
When I finally left my computer to sleep, it was bright outside, pale stone blue, like milk spilled on lapiz lazuli. The birds outside, huddled together on the wire, had begun to coo, an alarm clock in reverse, and our music playing was like our hands warmly holding across the distance, comforting and quiet. I wonder if we got it in sync.
The Rubber Science Ducks have finally run aground. There’s bounty on them too.
This week has felt long, stretched out, as something new happens every day and I struggle to find a meaningful habit of pattern. Every day flows free form and anchorless. It’s bad for me.
Yesterday I meant to re-write my resume, but instead Lung brought Dominique and I to a lake out past Sqaumish where the water was clear green and cold. Next to the highway, it was perfect British Columbia. We sat in our bathingsuits on a log jutting out into the water and complained the water was too cruel to swim. We sang along to our music and told stories about the first time we had heard certain songs.
The day before that I had planned to spend sliding down hills on ice with with Merlyn, grass stains mandatory, but instead I found myself visiting Chelsea in New Westminster with Jenn and Dominique, ultimately playing phone tag with him and missing him altogether.
Today I’m taking head-shots of Michael C. in exchange for lunch, other than that, I think it’s time again to plan an afternoon inside, crafting a resume to explain to the world that I am competent. Finally the summer is here and I am ignoring it.
