The Rockies will be on in a minute. Gotta get it on the gamecast on as I can’t get it on TV. I don’t care about their record. I just want them to beat the Cubs.
Playing The Wolf again. I spent ten minutes earlier this morning crafting a response to someone who felt this change in their sound came out of the blue. I laid out all these facts that a fangirl knows. I made a case. Just before pressing the button to start a fresh thread unravelling on an internet argument I would never be able to win, I looked at the clock and gave it up and ran off for my appointment with the TurboTax. As soon as you start to think you can correct someone on the internet’s opinion on anything, you’ve lost. I haven’t allotted any more time in the budget of my life to redressing internet wrongs.
Listening again, now, I realize that I love just the hell out of this song. I sit on my bed and feel it run through me, feel the memories it evokes, going to Bristol, jumping up and down as light and sound obliterated every last little worry in my head, going to Guthrie and the beetled hotel room and the red dirt on the little white Yaris maneuvering out of that bumpy field. The sweaty, dark lit up by a strand of lights hung under over a tunnel and realizing how strong my little sister was. Going to Italy and meeting my friend who only ever would have become my friend if it weren’t for those boys thinking they should start a band. Driving with Sigh No More on repeat, and repeat, and repeat, never skipping a song. Seeing them at the Fillmore, pressed against the wooden bar, seeing them at Red Rocks. Always leavened, spiritualized, made into a giddy thing. In some ways, they made the past four years of my life, if not possible…survivable. They were a point of focus and escape and travel and even if they put out an album of themselves reading Kanye West lyrics, or performing polka classics, or whatever else would feel as profane as plugging in does to some, I’d buy it and give it a shot. They’ve earned that from me.
I lip-sync along, unhinged: “You were all I ever lonnnnnnnnnnnged for!” The core of what I want to hear is right there, undiminished by the electric melody bounding beneath it.
They’ll be on SNL tonight and I’ll be watching.
Apparently, my ex co-worker’s pizza party was cancelled due to “unforeseen circumstances.” I turned up an hour into the supposed open house to see a near-empty parking lot and a posted message on the door. I don’t know what this means. Eventually, I will find out, but for now, I’m just relieved not to have to be back in that world. It was an opportunity, though, to Saturday drive and I took a old, but more straight-forward route and didn’t think twice about doing it. That was good. The taxes are also done with the usual refund on its way and a bit more than usual from the state coming once I send off the paperwork on Monday. Not enough to warrant giving up $25 for the convenience of not having to find a stamp. Not when one’s father is a philatelist.
No you. I keep the email account open. The grail-shaped beacon. I refuse to knock on that door, though. I refuse to say peep. The three men crewing the lighthouse for sanity’s sake, awaiting the crash, to see you bob up between the sheets of gasoline and scattered fuselage. Pluck you up take you inland for a stiff drink while I make my way down from the hills. These are things we have no say in. These are things that are not ours to mend. The only choice to make is when to call it. Like the last dwindling spikes on an EKG machine, beeping out: Not yet, not yet, not yet.
The Rockies are down 3 – 0, bottom of the second. If they’re going to make it, these are the kind of situations where they have to fight. I see the parallels. I’m thinking. I look again and they’ve cut the lead down to a single run.
There’s some tasks to take care of, trash to bring to the curb, beds to make. Enough screaming into this Void.