"...in the midst of it all..."
the furies are at home in the backlined gear that didn't get left for us. it is their address
the scent of woodsmoke is on the wind, and the sound of a life flight roars in the distance, echoing through the cold night air.
there’s a period in the evening when it’s first dark, when it feels extremely late, and a point further in the night when it feels early, but the hours have melted together and it has become late.
“we might miss the rain tomorrow,” i think. debating whether i should wear the spandex shorts over a base layer, sport-fabric pant. “where are those fucking pants, anyway?”, i wonder to myself without a tangible word spoken.
i admire the plasticity of the time i can spend quietly pecking away at keys, figuring out basslines, drinking a cider, with my house quiet and devoid of distraction — save for that great distraction which my brain creates, sending me on quests to chase up, and tie up loose ends of curiosity.
rustling in the leaves. a neighbourhood cat, a raccoon, a mangy squirrel. it’s nighttime, and that means that certain creatures are out.
for the first time in five years, a bird landed on outer sill of the tiny hopper window in the back of my house, and sung a jaunty tune.
certain creatures at certain times.
this, and other things, guide me towards the lesson that some unexpected and unlikely things do indeed happen — and fank thuck that i planned ahead for at least some unexpected things.
as the racist asshole albertan diesel mechanic i watch on youtube says, “prior planning prevents piss-poor performance.”
i find the pants easily in my office. they were in a plastic box, a little bit stale and musty from the sweater packed in the same box — it was sweated into, then put into a closed plastic box. i must wash these before storing them again, and use an open-air setup this time around.
[originally drafted november 9th, 2024. the weather mentioned reflects this information.]