We talked about how we weren’t going to be together anymore and then I went downstairs to play some songs because it seemed like a comforting thing to do and he followed me into the studio and accompanied me on bass and we went back and forth selecting songs.  The irony reached a pitch and I had the urge to record us for posterity though that was pointless since he was leaving; if this was the last time we would play these songs together a record of it was decidedly valuable, though desperately impractical.  One only plans for the banal and unsurprising.   The unexpected whirrs past; we lack a record but are rewarded with intensity.


Unscrupulous consumption

I get into a frenzy of accumulation.  I get this way with children’s songbooks. Rather than making the effort to learn one song, then another, I go crazy to buy up all the songbooks and then put them on the shelf where dust collects.  

I do the same with theatrical costumes. I get a rush from buying up one spine-tingling outfit after the next.  I put them all in my closet where they hang expectantly.  

A quite radical act then might be to dress up and take to the streets, serenading children.  It would be a good use of my resources, freeing me from the crime of unscrupulous consumption.  


A story (in) which I contemplate reentering

Our stories keep re-telling themselves.  I find myself done up like a woman in the movies, from days of old, red feather in my hair, walking down the street with a suitcase and a wooden stool.  Am I going to start busking?  Or should I wander into a bar and find a sympathetic stranger? Only I know which story sticks to me like webbing, which story feels right, like falling into love or a soft bed or both simultaneously.  



Perhaps I am insatiable for him – I want to apply his brand to my wrist, neck, temples.  I want to reapply at every light to ward off forgetfulness.  I want to tell the world – he’s mine – even when he’s closed off to me.