This morning, at my desk, it is just a shade chilly, so that a light sweater is fetched. The silver keypad emits a crispness that rubs off onto my fingertips. A teacup nearby is a receptacle for brown liquid which slurped readily warms the throat and gullet. But outside on the porch, it is blazingly hot, inviting one to relax and bask in the sun’s rays, like a dazed vacationer.
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.
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.