Bathed in gold we’d plug into some kind of power
and connect with those days back before all of this went sour
-Cowboy Junkies, Come Calling from the CD Lay it Down
Soft dawn light is wandering into the bedroom, drifting from orange to yellow and back again. The ceiling fan pours and occasionally Lisa rustles in her sleep, but everything else seems etched in space, captured by some master artist. I was going to say something snarky about commercials in movies or the hate for our ghetto space shuttle, but it would destroy the mood. It’s early Saturday morning and the living is easy.
PS- no, theres nothing sour between Lisa and me, but the soft mood of the song fits the morning.
Saturday, August 06, 2005 06:48 AM
Bathed in Gold
Saturday, July 30, 2005 08:11 PM
Corner of Light & Pratt and I’m in Love
I miss being in love with a city. Walking it streets, surrounded by it’s people, falling in love with it’s women, knowing there’s a potential pal on the street with me and we could pop into one of those bars that are on every street, holes in the wall really, thats been owned for years by the same guy or the same couple, with the usual bar staff that don’t water down the drinks. It’s usually dark in there, with all sorts of stuff on the walls, a little dirty, a little grimey, but with character, you know.
Cities smell, both good and bad. The good smells are made by the cousins or brothers of the bar owners, cooking up the food of their people, gryos or fried rice, or Mexican or the hot dog vendor or bread and cookies, all of cooked daily, though maybe not sold daily. Sometimes it’s fresh flowers or fruits, opened up to the sidewalk.
The bad smells are dirt and pollution, concrete burned with the smell of piss from bums and drunk partiers, dank sweat and exhaustion from those who were born there and never left, no matter what their dreams were. But it’s ok, ‘cuase the bad smells make it all seem real, make the city seem alive, ‘cause you can’t love it all the time, not 24/7. No the bitch gets on your nerves sometimes, when it gets too cold or too hot, too wet or too dry, too noisy or too quiet. It’s ok. You love it because the city it sn’t your bitch, it does it’s own thing, but when you need it, when the bones ache for home, its there, a little different from years ago, but its heart still there, open wide just for you.
Cities smell, both good and bad. The good smells are made by the cousins or brothers of the bar owners, cooking up the food of their people, gryos or fried rice, or Mexican or the hot dog vendor or bread and cookies, all of cooked daily, though maybe not sold daily. Sometimes it’s fresh flowers or fruits, opened up to the sidewalk.
The bad smells are dirt and pollution, concrete burned with the smell of piss from bums and drunk partiers, dank sweat and exhaustion from those who were born there and never left, no matter what their dreams were. But it’s ok, ‘cuase the bad smells make it all seem real, make the city seem alive, ‘cause you can’t love it all the time, not 24/7. No the bitch gets on your nerves sometimes, when it gets too cold or too hot, too wet or too dry, too noisy or too quiet. It’s ok. You love it because the city it sn’t your bitch, it does it’s own thing, but when you need it, when the bones ache for home, its there, a little different from years ago, but its heart still there, open wide just for you.
