The word “lethologica” describes the state of not being able to remember the word you want.

group shot (knocking things over)

Small tornado hits Montreal

When Nicholas popped up on my messenger yesterday, “I’m in town.” I had no idea of the strange place he would end up taking me. He and Ben, a musician friend of ours, were over from the Island to pick up a keyboard of some sort, a synthesizer with a vowel littered name that sounded futuristic to the seventies, like Aurora or Beacon, the details of which I missed completely. They were very excited about it. To me, the synth had keys, it had buttons, I’m sure it splutters and hums and does shiny, strange things with music and sound, but it, however, was not the fascinating bit of our miniature trip. Oh no, the mesmerizing detail was the studio – a tiny, triangle attic, thirty feet by eight, nailed to the ceiling above a car detailing shop, walled with mad science.

To find it, we were led through a shabby looking suite of empty offices, white paint turned cream by time, the desks a papery brown faux-wood laminate with peeling chrome legs, to a vast, creaking warehouse space full of sports car knock-off’s and chintzy seventies boats painted lime green and touched up with tiny flame decals under every window. A clothesline hung on one wall, dripping with soggy car mats, under a row of incredibly expensive looking lights. Next to this, past one of the two open doors bigger than the square footage of my apartment, we walked up a thin set of stairs which led up to what looked like a sports commentary booth at a home-ground baseball game.

Opening the door was a step back thirty, fourty years. The smell hit me like a hoisted rag. It was deep, rich, and musty, a carpet of blazing old dusty rock and roll that’s been left to ferment under a layer of antique audio equipment, tubes burning orange, dramatic knobs, row on row.

The left wall, where the sloping roof connected downward, was entirely lined with faded LPs, more records than could be counted in a week, and boxes of small disks, a haven of trapped sounds, chords past understanding, enough samples and songs to listen longer than a year. The right wall was equipment, soft green lights, wires in spaghetti tangles in sockets labeled SUNSHINE HUM, INPUT, SOCKET WRENCH, LEFT OUT, FLANGE, rows of it, stacked in racks, screwed into brackets, higher than I could reach, above thirty years of synthesizers, framed in retro-golden, tinny metals, and deep black plastic. Between these two overwhelming walls of sound was an upside down forest of thin cords and microphones hanging from the ceiling, presumably attached somehow to the veritable museum collection of fuzztastic furniture.

Somehow in the overwhelming sea of burned tinfoil brown, Nicholas and Ben were able to immediately pick out their purchase, an unassuming, almost modern keyboard, not even old enough to weight a ton. The owner of the place, a friendly man with short hair and a boring t-shirt, who arrived on a motorcycle that looked slightly too big for him, offered us the record collection as a lot as he counted his money. We said yes, of course, who wouldn’t, and left, content, the smell of the room lingering on our clothes as we packed hurriedly into the bench of Ben’s WWII Swiss army bus, worried about catching the last ferry back home.

We’ve been making our own all week

Miss Cellania found a Washington Post feature called Merge-Matic Books, where two-best-sellers are mixed into one. Here’s some examples, click the link to see them all:

“Machiavelli’s The Little Prince” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s classic children’s tale as presented by Machiavelli. The whimsy of human nature is embodied in many delightful and intriguing characters, all of whom are executed.

“Lorna Dune” – An English farmer, Paul Atreides, falls for the daughter of a notorious rival clan, the Harkonnens, and pursues a career as a giant worm jockey in order to impress her.

“Fahrenheit 451 of the Vanities” – An ’80s yuppie is denied books. He does not object, or even notice.

“Planet of the Grapes of Wrath” – Astronaut lands on mysterious planet, only to discover that it is his very own home planet of Earth, which has been taken over by the Joads, a race of dirt-poor corn farmers who miraculously developed rudimentary technology and evolved the ability to speak after exposure to nuclear radiation.

I’m just twisting inside, uncertain how I will ever sleep again

(I’m not giving up. I don’t feel like crying.) My restless heart is awake tonight. The love of my life so far called up from Los Angeles where he lives and works in Hollywood, tonight fixing the green screen behind a mechanized animatronic badger some pool soul created for a Wisconsin lotto campaign, because that’s just how the world is some times. He moved a few months ago, changed apartments, because his roommates were having a baby, and tonight she’s gone into labour. The father was text messaging him the scale of dilation as the news came in as he and his wife prepared in the same room Angelina Jolie gave birth to her baby twins in. Strings to my heart from his, I’m not sure how tonight I will sleep. David lives here like a knock-off imitation of the real thing, flushed with sleep in the bed behind me as I chatter, endlessly, joyfully, down south, a river of miles away. I wake him, briefly, when Antony’s iPhone runs out of batteries, and he’s grumpy with me, annoyed, red-eyed, and I wonder if he feels as displaced as I do. I still think of Tony as my boyfriend, my skinny mad lover too rich and too clever and too handsome for anyone to live up to. He’s a couple of weeks recently only a month begun dating a performance artist, some woman named Michelle, I think, with a mad friend he doesn’t like. He didn’t tell me before for gentle worry it would be cruel to send a note. Deliriously, he is right. (We are declawed, yet holding back our teeth, soft like cats, cinnamon and sweet.) He tells me that she isn’t very attentive, a whole week went by without a call, without contact, and I feel justified, while I laugh with him about fallacy, how we get caught in these dramatic traps like early twenties, just teens, just out into life. Before me, there was no-one for ten years, a decade alone, and all these details, streaming through my blood like jade in my arteries, not jealousy, but something more mundane, a sallow sadness, not very good at expression, that loves him like the sky, oh loves him still, and stronger than I care for anything else in my life, the one here I have been trying so hard to build, so keenly, like he’s a knife I hold in my hand to keep myself safe, the city nothing to me, the distance, the far flung dreams of walking, of taking one step after the other, until I find myself there, waiting at his door, flowers in my hand like a scream.