Last night, Meg and I splayed ourselves amidst brown boxes that yawned open (poised for her imminent departure to the bush) and owned the fuck out of a trillion-dollar bottle of wine. Thanks Uncle James; you placed a very posh night straight into our fingers. I do not know the exact value of this liquid brilliance that we slid down our throats....all I know is that it came in a long, skinny box with a blood-red ribbon looped around it. Cool. Our fake boyfriends, Devendra Banhart and Jana Hunter licked our ears on repeat all night long, again and over more times than I became capable of counting. Candlelight flecked the nearly-naked walls of Meg's living room, and blackened chocolate lay broken into bits on the low table between us. A strange blend of sadness and the loosest contentedness settled in around me as I sat there, folded into the blanketed couch, ribs grazing against. It will be weird to see that space go; for some reason that I cannot quite decipher, I have the fiercest attachment to those walls. Or rather, all that has transpired within them...food and drink and records and laughter and friends and photoshoots and meltdowns and secret-spilling and...I could go on. Here, instead, is a glimpse of what expensive alcohol will do to people whose budgets typically accomadate $10 bottles of wine:
On a completely unrelated note, I have been intrigued lately by this artist named Robert Wyatt. He is a wildly interesting musician who I also find a great deal of inspiration in as a writer. I think that he twists words together in a really unique way. Like this...
Sea Song (Wyatt):
You look different every time you come
From the foam-crested brine
Your skin shining softly in the moonlight
Partly fish, partly porpoise, partly baby sperm whale
Am I yours? Are you mine to play with?
Joking apart - when you're drunk you're terrific when you're drunk
I like you mostly late at night you're quite alright
But I can't understand the different you in the morning
When it's time to play at being human for a while please smile!
You'll be different in the spring, I know
You're a seasonal beast like the starfish that drift in with the tide
So until your your blood runs to meet the next full moon
You're madness fits in nicely with my own
Your lunacy fits neatly with my own, my very own
We're not alone
He was a young babe and now he is an old man. Either way, in my opinion he oozes coolness.
Onwards with my Sunday,
RB.
1 comment:
It is not my walls that ooze coolness, it is you, yourself and I. I will miss you in those walls, I pined for all that will no longer be while I taped the last box shut, but then I remembered that home is just something we make ourselves. In front of a fakey fireplace? Home. On a beach in Nice? Home. In a gazebo in the country? Home. On a bed of pine needles/in an ex lover's bed thinking of each other? Home.
We are home.
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