stop making sense

Tonight's musical accompaniment, in no particular order: Dengue Fever (Dengue Fever, 1993), Nina Simone (Live at the Village Gate, 1962), The Dave Brubeck Trio (Time Out, 1959), Cut Copy (In Ghost Colours, 2008). There's something in the air tonight: the lights are on, and I'm alone, but at ease with the sounds. A general blog about happenings, random and foreseen. New (old) people inhabit my life once again. The experience is precisely like listening to an old song. It is fresh with excitement and ambiguity, but the melody and time signature doesn't change, and any novelty quickly becomes mired with repetition, and a history so sure of itself it croons of tragicomedy. The rules were set from the beginning, and we are just typing along, acting like we'll hear new things, or interpret new meanings. So one wonders...and wonders. I am dancing for two, then, and one of them is myself. But he isn't always fair, and I know that. And he isn't always content, either, juggling Kant's superego of duty, and his own apparent lack thereof.

On the other hand, new faces: they glow in the center of pictures, and sprout like flowers on the page. My friend, the poet, in a small enchanting bar on Ossington. New friends, drinking ideas and red wine in an Indian restaurant on Bloor. Sitting and laughing in the delicate darkness of the park at moonlight. All of these things, and more. An unwritten book of possibilities. The desire to do, to experience, to take these in, the people, the moments, ad infinitum. But always conditions! Conditions of time, of format, of design. And who am I to say, or question, or desire?