What a whirlwind of mental state within the last 18 hours of my life. Crying at the table, smiling into the Montreal warm WINDS (triple hallelujah), texting my mother a sea of love, deep gratitude for my Friends of the Ages, even deeper missing of my family these days especially, sorrow over loss, confusion and embarrassment in the middle of tabletalk, hopefulness and insecurity at a vernissage in St. Henri. A shitmix, to say the least.
I HAVE BEEN FEELING PLENTY.
Most of the tears were cued with the first melodies of Demetra's album played through my headphones while the boy slept. Head bowed, I sat and gave it the best listen I could. The tears came, grief tap wide fucking open. Listening, it was so easy to imagine her writing music in a little dump trailer in Churchill, MB. Polar bears and papas in red check, big winds and frozen lashes on frozen water. Woman, keep singing, you have the talent. Do seek out her album, brew some strong coffee and give it the best listen you can in the light of morn/mourn.
Her mother's name is Vern. Strong ladies in that that family.
Meach, you are a friend of the ages and I am proud of you! Proud to know you! Thanks for reminding me of a woman you never met, of her out walking in the feathered air of winter in her own great Inuit winter coats. She loved the north as much as you. Wow, I haven't been moved by music to that extent in a very long time. Auntie Marj, I feel you baby. You are all around. Last week's horoscope touched upon enduring pain caused by the eagle, and encouraged us Rams in Limbo to feel gratitude for all we've learned during the ordeal.
Suck it up, grow from it.
The lesson of my week. Self-discipline, the lesson of the end of my 24th year. Learn it Meg, realtime. This week's lesson was something else altogether. A lesson on memory (something that comes to me with more ease than anything else I know). I'll keep it to myself for now, quiet thoughts as I push my little curly haired fellow around town, both of us in awe over the first of the warm winds of Spring. Bush, bush, bush, bush longing in that wind. To staunch one hunger, and to feed another one altogether different, I bought a new record. I love going into the record shop with Leo. We are always met with hesitation and then ease. He is a crowd pleaser, even the punks like Leo. Last week while we visited Phonopolis, my local record shop, we were given a thumbs up and a curt "gotta start 'em young" string of approval from a hardcore man. Alright! Yes, I couldn't agree more.
Anyway, Kurt Vile is my no. 1. His new album Smoke Ring for my Halo, is as good if not better than his other work. The Creature, The Thunder, The Thinker, The Finder. Good work boys, wish I could take your picture while you partake of your outdoor coffee and cigarette in between songs. These drums, such a fullness. Surprising piano, striking and strong. Great album. Find it, buy it on vinyl, don't be dumb, do it right. Speaking of photos, I dropped off my first roll shot with the Kiev at my photo place this morning, should be ready 'round next week. Blurtown, for sure. I need a good tripod. Still, I am excited all the same.
Leo and I walked aimlessly in this unfamiliar weather, sans gloves, doing lazy loops to nowhere. Coffee breaks on people's stoops, teaching him about shadows on the sidewalk. Cloud coverage, big temps.
I am in a weird place within myself, but there are bigger fish to fry. Japan, holy hell. A reminder from Rags to quit complaining "say it with me", thanks woman for keeping it real. Your touch is far and wide, don't forget it. Touch your baby's sleeping eyelids for Aunty Meg.
See you at Easter shoes Winnipeg.
hEY BIRD,
ReplyDeleteI've been listening to Lone Migration a LOT too. Always tears and shivers, that voice brings me. It really comforted me just now to read that we are doing something the same, maybe even at the same time.
Easter.
xo
Ragged (as ever).