Monday, July 11, 2005

Sunday Is For Furniture

Friday was for partying, and I had a great time. What made it even better was some shiny Prozzäk in the player on the way down to 64 Ave. Whatev, it was locked, it was that kind of night. Rearranged the birthday man's furniture while most everyone else was in the kitchen, switched all the New Age inspirational pictures in the room, brought back a fistful of cigars from Whyte with a friend of Crystal's and kept those puffies handy in the mailbox. The life I lead, it's crazy. Talked wildly to people I knew and people I didn't know. Avoided the hot tub (this is a GOOD thing), mauled the cats, starred in a series of jump-sequence-pictures (sorry, too long to explain if you don't understand), and got home pretty early, too, say around three.

Saturday was for working. Well. I was only 15 minutes late, not too bad. Dapo was 45 minutes late, and that WAS bad. He's got the key for the store, you understand. But the whole day was made in the sweet soft shade once the straight shift ended, because I got to ride one of those mini-bikes round and round the enormous parking lots. It was little and gold, and made fifty kms feel like five hundred. I thought I was going to be Stephen Hawking when I hit the first bump (Ryan had already cartwheeled and crashed the beast that morning), and I couldn't stop laughing.

To Crystal's, and furniture, because furniture is good. Furniture is top-notch. Furniture, it turns out, is why God invented Sunday. Lots of peeps think God was boosting rest on Sunday. This, it turns out, may be an error in translation. What the scribes thought was "rest" turns out to have been ancient Hebrew for "awkwardly heavy boards which probably won't fit together, plus they're very scratchable, plus some assembly required (you better believe it), plus THAT STUPID KITTEN IS TEARING APART EVERY FRIGGING ATOM OF STYROFOAM-PACKING IN THE CASE AND IT'S A BIG CASE". Which is a lot of ideas on one little verb, but I tried it out, and they're all there, the blood, the sweat, the tears. It's like a whole seventies rock revival in one little word.

Lastly, London. More people have died, more are likely to die. The bombs have not really finished exploding. For some people, some families, certain girlfriends and boyfriends, particular co-workers, loyal customers, long-time neighbours, hallway nodders, that holder of a secret crush, that classmate, that careerist, that fellow-dreamer, fellow-stranger, fellow-life-to-be-lived, for that future, which was to be and now is forever not—for that person, those bombs will never stop exploding. And to that person, those people, that future, I cannot make a difference, cannot give anything, except these words, very little words, only the smallest words. And what are words against a bomb?

: The Egoist + George Meredith
Listening: "(Angry Kids Of The World) Unite" + Tiger Tunes

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