higgledy-piggledy
Siobhán,
Darling, I've a lot to tell. Seasons have shifted. Last time we spoke... when was it? Too long, long, long. Nowadays it seems there's entirely too much space between everyone. We're all pilgrims, drifters, wanderers, wayfarers, rovers, nomads, dryads, peregrines, runaways, stowaways, searchers, seekers, scapegraces & bindle stiffs. Staying put is no longer an option, as it was when we were tiny and still fresh from the earth, still wound into the ground by serpentine roots. Now when I return home, the house is unsettlingly clean & quiet & devoid of screams & teens & puppies. Some things are yet unchanged, tho; Dad's homemade wine is still kinda sour. Mom still wears the same soft nightie. I hope you're still the same girl I knew in middle school, the one who merited Meet Virginia lyrics on her lunchbox and little piggies named Georgie in her agenda. I hope your heart is still large and adobe. I hope you still defend yourself with fingernails and watercolour. But then again, I hope you've evolved a little, toughened up in some places, softened down in others. Most of all I hope things are bright and higgledy-piggledy, and sunrise yolk is still an arcane shade of purplish reddish yellowish bluish orange, and the moon's still marigold, and the stars are still salt on a blackboard, and I hope you can still see (at least) a few from your urban Haligonian perch. Do the taps leak? Do your floors creak like dying geese? Does your refrigerator hum like a robot songstress? I hope you're home long enough to answer these questions in person. The year's rounding to a close and I keep feeling nostalgic for last New Year's Eve. Remember roaming through the snow? Remember trudging towards movie theaters, rowdy pubs, sushi joints? Remember the big blueberry idol we found by the side of the highway? I miss Claire's kitty; what's its name again? I hope your kitchen is still lined with multicolour jugs and bottles, smoothed and weathered like driftwood. I hope you have some good strong boys to shovel your driveway -- or girls! No prejudice when it comes to northerly storms; in the aftermath, everybody's entitled to rosy noses & numb fingertips, whether they've got a vulva or a penis. Speaking of which, I hope you're gettin' some. I hope the love in your life is still abundant & wide-eyed, still upright & proud, and I hope his lion mane catches the light and looks aflame. I'm in love with a hazelnut boy with shitty posture but drop-dead eyes. I call him Bunky Jojo and he calls me Ponyo. We're comrades in a war with the mice that denizen our building -- too many to kill, all unflinchingly pesky, infesting the walls and chewing through to our precious St. V bagels and Cocoa Puff cereal. These, along with onions & no name tomato soup, are the essential staples of my diet. I'm unemployed & overworked, reading & writing like a fiend, my brain dizzy-dancing around words like a Ferrari doing donuts in an abandoned parking lot. Do you still work in a sea of books? Have they swallowed you up yet? My money is slowly dwindling, expended away on heat & light & shelter & water & granola & greenery & popsicles & jack daniel's 90 proof tennessee whiskey. I will have to get a job (preferably at a bakery or high-end cafe or low-end music shop) once I get back to the city and resume my excessively expensive lifestyle & extinguish the vermin & roll in bedding with Bunky. Hard knocks, soft socks. Maybe once you're back home you can ruffle my hair and we can sit with candles and talk about how the world's gonna end. I know there is silence and distance but we can sometimes hope to reconnect -- geographically, electrically, or otherwise. We've drifted far out to separate corners of the ocean, but we share the same estuary. So let's wade a little together with our jeans rolled up to our knees when you come back. Despite the chill. Despite the years, I think of you often and I often find myself telling others: "I have this friend from home, you'd simply love her." Which is what I, quite simply, have done for a decade and will continue to do for decades to come.
With love & squalor,
Edmé
Darling, I've a lot to tell. Seasons have shifted. Last time we spoke... when was it? Too long, long, long. Nowadays it seems there's entirely too much space between everyone. We're all pilgrims, drifters, wanderers, wayfarers, rovers, nomads, dryads, peregrines, runaways, stowaways, searchers, seekers, scapegraces & bindle stiffs. Staying put is no longer an option, as it was when we were tiny and still fresh from the earth, still wound into the ground by serpentine roots. Now when I return home, the house is unsettlingly clean & quiet & devoid of screams & teens & puppies. Some things are yet unchanged, tho; Dad's homemade wine is still kinda sour. Mom still wears the same soft nightie. I hope you're still the same girl I knew in middle school, the one who merited Meet Virginia lyrics on her lunchbox and little piggies named Georgie in her agenda. I hope your heart is still large and adobe. I hope you still defend yourself with fingernails and watercolour. But then again, I hope you've evolved a little, toughened up in some places, softened down in others. Most of all I hope things are bright and higgledy-piggledy, and sunrise yolk is still an arcane shade of purplish reddish yellowish bluish orange, and the moon's still marigold, and the stars are still salt on a blackboard, and I hope you can still see (at least) a few from your urban Haligonian perch. Do the taps leak? Do your floors creak like dying geese? Does your refrigerator hum like a robot songstress? I hope you're home long enough to answer these questions in person. The year's rounding to a close and I keep feeling nostalgic for last New Year's Eve. Remember roaming through the snow? Remember trudging towards movie theaters, rowdy pubs, sushi joints? Remember the big blueberry idol we found by the side of the highway? I miss Claire's kitty; what's its name again? I hope your kitchen is still lined with multicolour jugs and bottles, smoothed and weathered like driftwood. I hope you have some good strong boys to shovel your driveway -- or girls! No prejudice when it comes to northerly storms; in the aftermath, everybody's entitled to rosy noses & numb fingertips, whether they've got a vulva or a penis. Speaking of which, I hope you're gettin' some. I hope the love in your life is still abundant & wide-eyed, still upright & proud, and I hope his lion mane catches the light and looks aflame. I'm in love with a hazelnut boy with shitty posture but drop-dead eyes. I call him Bunky Jojo and he calls me Ponyo. We're comrades in a war with the mice that denizen our building -- too many to kill, all unflinchingly pesky, infesting the walls and chewing through to our precious St. V bagels and Cocoa Puff cereal. These, along with onions & no name tomato soup, are the essential staples of my diet. I'm unemployed & overworked, reading & writing like a fiend, my brain dizzy-dancing around words like a Ferrari doing donuts in an abandoned parking lot. Do you still work in a sea of books? Have they swallowed you up yet? My money is slowly dwindling, expended away on heat & light & shelter & water & granola & greenery & popsicles & jack daniel's 90 proof tennessee whiskey. I will have to get a job (preferably at a bakery or high-end cafe or low-end music shop) once I get back to the city and resume my excessively expensive lifestyle & extinguish the vermin & roll in bedding with Bunky. Hard knocks, soft socks. Maybe once you're back home you can ruffle my hair and we can sit with candles and talk about how the world's gonna end. I know there is silence and distance but we can sometimes hope to reconnect -- geographically, electrically, or otherwise. We've drifted far out to separate corners of the ocean, but we share the same estuary. So let's wade a little together with our jeans rolled up to our knees when you come back. Despite the chill. Despite the years, I think of you often and I often find myself telling others: "I have this friend from home, you'd simply love her." Which is what I, quite simply, have done for a decade and will continue to do for decades to come.
With love & squalor,
Edmé