I got a ticket!

I had opened my mailbox to find an envelope labelled “Here’s your ticket.”. Holy shit! This is exciting! I wonder what it could be for?

Maybe it’s a ticket to a grand adventure! Perhaps I’ll finally be able to experience the high mountains of Louisiana or the lakes and rivers of The Mojave. I could see the large cities of Wyoming or the tiny, sparsely populated India.

Or it could be a ticket to a show! Maybe this ticket will allow me to see the band that I never knew existed but have always desired to see! I can feel the new love growing within me now as the sweet sound of that guitar washes me inside and out.

I ran to my living room and held my breath as I opened the envelope . . .

Oh, it’s an advertisement for a travel agency. I guess I’ll just go sit down and stare at the wall or something then.

***

Another one from Danny, this time we have Bumblebee! Thanks man!

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The life I dream of.‏

I sit in this chair,
Thinking about how life isn’t fair.
If only I could drop everything,
And travel without a dare.

To simply travel with the flow,
How I would love to make it so.
I’m envious of the people,
Who can just drop everything and go.

. . . Ugh, I can’t write anymore of this garbage. I’ve read this story too many times to count. If you’re stuck in a rut take up a hobby or something. And before you say it’s a waste of time clearly it can’t be any less of a time-waster than what you’re doing now or else you wouldn’t be complaining about being in a rut to begin with.

Let’s talk about music for a moment.

My favourite album from the past month is easily ‘Vichada’ by Kashka. But then again I’m arguably in love with the lead singer, Forest City Lovers (Kat’s former project) is my favourite band, I’ve recently gotten into synth pop in the last year and I’m generally easily persuaded by any woman who can belt out a decent tune so I’m pretty bias on the matter. Have a listen anyway: http://kashka.bandcamp.com/

I bought the cassette and just got it the other day along with this postcard. Whenever anybofy asks me why I’m a fan of Kat Burns at any point in the future I’ll just point them to this:

I love music. I love having a 5500+ song collection that’s 99.9 percent legally owned. I don’t have the patience to create any of my own however. I generally pick up an instrument, learn how to play something that’s like 20 notes long and drop it after spending a total of an hour or so, never to touch it again.

I don’t believe I’m really going anywhere with this. So here’s a .swf of Colin Mochrie dancing and a picture of a bee on the beach: http://internet.thoughtdump.net/DancingColin.swf

So I decided to drink to spur the writing process. This is the result:

I press on. With one hand under my robe I firmly grasp the neck of a priceless violin. The other I use to hold the robe in a desperate grip, the kind you use to hold a lover for that final moment knowing you won’t see them again for a time that is always too long. I had forgotten why I needed to leave so badly, but it needed to be done.

The dusty trail is all that I have known for quite some time now. I wander and I wonder as I wonder and I wander. Man I love that sentence. The trail seems never-ending. Of course it hasn’t been the same trail for all of this time but that makes no difference in my mind.

Maybe it’s time to stop deluding myself. I know damn well why I had left, and it wasn’t because of the romantic travelling fantasies that I’ve had my entire life. I was running. Running away from things that anyone else could handle with little effort. Or so I’ve been lead to believe anyway. My flair for the dramatic had laid its roots far too deep though, to the point that it was the primary cause of many major life choices.

It was the same old tale you’ve surely heard over and over. Yes, there was a woman. Memories of lying on an open hill watching clouds while my hand found hers for the first time, urging her to play me a song on her bass until she finally caved in and shyly played a jazz solo she wrote, making love while covered only by the light of the moon . . . These things constantly push their way to the forefront of my mind. Sometimes with my consent, sometimes without. Like a passionate kiss from an angry god they always leave me confused and hurt regardless.

Why things fell apart so quickly was beyond me. But alas they did. Disagreements turned into arguments, arguments turned into confrontations and confrontations turned into fights. Then I abandoned it all. Leaving only a spiteful note for her and an apologetic note full of vague explanations for my roommate with enough money to pay for a month’s rent I ran away from my problems. Given my approach it was probably safe to assume that everything was my fault. With that said though that’s my thought pattern towards most things in life.

Pawning off my expensive goods for some quick cash and leaving most of the rest behind out of convenience I departed for nowhere. Aside from clothing all I took with me was a cheap violin. Priceless not because of its monetary value, but because it was my first. You never forget your first love. I did sign the bottom of it though. If that act ever made it more valuable than any instrument made with a high level of craftsmanship . . . Well, it’s a fantasy I have. A common one I’m sure.

Years later and I find myself on a desert cliff somewhere in the great southwest. What makes it so great I’ve yet to experience. This is as good a place as any though. I survey the scenery in front of me. Still can’t decide if these things are better experienced alone or with the company of . . .

A tear forms as I remind myself yet again that the answer to that one is obvious.

With my right hand I cast off the robe behind me in a dramatic fashion. I pull the bow from a sheath I wear on my back over the shoulder. It feels like I’m an archer who just pulled out the arrow that will pierce the target of my desire. Which is excellent because that’s the precise reason I designed the sheath to begin with. Hesitating for a few seconds I take a deep breath and close my eyes as I position the violin on my shoulder . . .

The song I play is a song of my own concoction. A concoction of hope, love, sorrow and regret. I play to an audience of nobody. Even in my craft I strive to hide my innermost feelings from the world in fear of judgement.

After I finish I loosen my arms and let them hang by my sides. My violin gently taps my left calf as tears begin to stream more freely now. I stay like that for what seems like forever before sheathing my bow and re-donning my robe. I leave to go find shelter for the rest of the night.

I will continue doing this until everything makes sense. But by then my old life will be completely gone if it isn’t already. Maybe the only reason I keep this up is because familiarity breeds comfort. I await the day this cycle ends . . .

(Editor’s Note: After finishing this I didn’t feel like sketching a picture, so here’s something I pinned to a poster board on Barrington Street.)

It’s just a wisp of a thing!‏

As I sat at my cubicle a tiny rock caught my eye. Barely large enough to see without straining. Must’ve gotten stuck in my shoe or something.

Picking it up I pondered what kind of journey must’ve led it here. Was this rock always native to Nova Scotia? Perhaps it was stuck to the shoe of a visitor. A distant visitor? More than likely a visitor from within the province, but what if it was from an international tourist?

What if this rock had somehow managed to travel here from another country? Oh, there are so many to choose from. What climates has this rock been exposed to? Was this a piece of a rock that had drifted to show from the frigid waters of the north? Or perhaps it was a rock that was at the very center of the equator. Maybe this rock was from the very center of the earth and was carried out by a volcano!

*Gasp* Could it be that this rock is a piece of a meteorite!? That would be so cool! If this rock could tell its tale maybe it would tell me a story of the wonders of space. Is there life in space that can live without air? This could . . .

. . . Aww damn, I dropped it. Now I can’t find it . . . Oh hey, that pencil is unusually shiny! I wonder what kind of journey must’ve led it here . . .

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