για χαμπίμπι; για λε-λέλι
Sitting here after work, my eyelids fall, a begin to drift away, and I thought I heard thunder rumble somewhere east--on the plains. No--it's still February. And an old Toyota rolls out of the Safeway parking lot at the corner.
My ascent into the mountains will be pronounced--loud and for all to hear. The spring will be cold at first and long, the summer base and savage. There will be high ceilings of stars and sharp pangs in soiled lungs. There will be streams and springs and pine cones and dry, cracked grass by the end of it. Early mornings and late nights and the smell of horse shit always along the first miles of the trail heads. Moose and elk and maybe a bear, but hopefully not. There will be bon fires by teepees and music of our making and we will dance with shirts off and wake up to magnificent hallucinations of sunrises, catch fish from the pole and cook them on a hot rock in the coals, with garlic, salt, and a potato. There will be new peaks, new valleys, dramatic new shifts in the weather at altitude, and there will be yodeling. Thundering exhales of exhaustion; overwhelming spells of natural ambience, swelling and crashing all around, awakening us.
I'm so convinced that this could be the best year of my life. It's a hilarious thing to be convinced of.
"My Misirlou, your sweet glance
Has lit a flame in my heart.
Ah, ya habibi, Ah, ya leh-leli, ah
Your two lips are dripping honey, ah.
"Ah, Misirlou, magical, exotic beauty.
Madness will overcome me, I can't endure any more.
Ah, I'll steal you away from the Arab land.
"My black-eyed, my wild Misirlou,
My life changes with one kiss
Ah, ya habibi, one little kiss, ah
From your sweet little lips, ah."
--from the Greek folk tradition, to any number of women/metaphorical mistresses
(And Mike's bishop took Zach's queen!--and that's how the game was won and lost.)
Strange sincerity tonight, and logistics of where to keep the hypothetical bong--and if it were in Jonny's room, what are the chances either cat might knock it over? St. Vincent is playing at the Bluebird tonight, and Mary is babysitting for a friend who has to attend a funeral. I am so bummed she isn't coming to the concert with us, and I am so bemused by the sincerity of that bummed outness.
The bemusement leads me to be grateful, to have something to drive me.
St. Vincent; tonight will be a spectacular night. I am going to lose control of my body.
I am going to lose control of my body forever tonight.
My ascent into the mountains will be pronounced--loud and for all to hear. The spring will be cold at first and long, the summer base and savage. There will be high ceilings of stars and sharp pangs in soiled lungs. There will be streams and springs and pine cones and dry, cracked grass by the end of it. Early mornings and late nights and the smell of horse shit always along the first miles of the trail heads. Moose and elk and maybe a bear, but hopefully not. There will be bon fires by teepees and music of our making and we will dance with shirts off and wake up to magnificent hallucinations of sunrises, catch fish from the pole and cook them on a hot rock in the coals, with garlic, salt, and a potato. There will be new peaks, new valleys, dramatic new shifts in the weather at altitude, and there will be yodeling. Thundering exhales of exhaustion; overwhelming spells of natural ambience, swelling and crashing all around, awakening us.
I'm so convinced that this could be the best year of my life. It's a hilarious thing to be convinced of.
"My Misirlou, your sweet glance
Has lit a flame in my heart.
Ah, ya habibi, Ah, ya leh-leli, ah
Your two lips are dripping honey, ah.
"Ah, Misirlou, magical, exotic beauty.
Madness will overcome me, I can't endure any more.
Ah, I'll steal you away from the Arab land.
"My black-eyed, my wild Misirlou,
My life changes with one kiss
Ah, ya habibi, one little kiss, ah
From your sweet little lips, ah."
--from the Greek folk tradition, to any number of women/metaphorical mistresses
(And Mike's bishop took Zach's queen!--and that's how the game was won and lost.)
Strange sincerity tonight, and logistics of where to keep the hypothetical bong--and if it were in Jonny's room, what are the chances either cat might knock it over? St. Vincent is playing at the Bluebird tonight, and Mary is babysitting for a friend who has to attend a funeral. I am so bummed she isn't coming to the concert with us, and I am so bemused by the sincerity of that bummed outness.
The bemusement leads me to be grateful, to have something to drive me.
St. Vincent; tonight will be a spectacular night. I am going to lose control of my body.
I am going to lose control of my body forever tonight.
Click to view