(no subject)
Godsmack's 'Voodoo' comes on a forgotten playlist while I stand in the kitchen julienning carrots and parsnips. Is that a verb? Maybe. I have been sipping a cocktail, a delightful concoction of high-quality vodka, tart cherry juice from a quart of cherries drained and destined for pie, sparkling water, a twist of lime.
Outside is a frigid grey landscape, West Michigan in the grip of an Arctic blast. The favorite chef knife stops, stills, and the song takes me back to humid summer nights, ten, eleven years ago. Lecture me later about the dangers of drinking and chopping.
It was summer. Heavy night air. Waiting for the evening was your only relief - not that it was an issue. This was a time when I slept late and played all night. "Hippie goth" were the cries when I would tumble into the coffee shop; tangled curls, probably dyed black, sparse tanktops, fluttery black skirts that wound so picturesquely about my ankles, feet bare. More often than not I smelled of nag champa oil and spice, glitter sprinkled freely everywhere. Black lace and sparkles, night air and woodsy musk.
I lost to chess, Ivan the Russian beat me every time. I'm certain several of us argued about who knows what, fueled by 'Chemical's,' Timothy's four-shot concoction, iced mocha with white and dark chocolate. The drink was thick and laid heavy on your tongue, bittersweet and cold as it slid down your throat. No amount of mastery has ever been able to perfectly duplicate that drink in my kitchen.
One am, two am, three am and the coffee shop is closing. A small group of us were not yet ready to go to bed. Satan and the diminutive Wendy-bird are the ones I clearly remember. Maybe Julie? Speedy? I don't clearly recall. We all went to my small studio apartment, where Satan proclaimed it would be an excellent place to get high, so many things to look at.
Four in the morning and I'm happily making alfredo sauce, boiling pasta, brownies in the oven for this group of people I called friends ten years ago. I remember the sighs of delight, the declarations of love. Who can turn down cheese and chocolate in the wee hours of the morning?
That's all, really. No point to this rambling entry. A song brings up a singular snapshot, a happy moment. So pale and sleepy, stirring sauce as the sun comes up. Part of a community in a way that I've never been able to recreate - or perhaps I'm just too scared to.
Outside is a frigid grey landscape, West Michigan in the grip of an Arctic blast. The favorite chef knife stops, stills, and the song takes me back to humid summer nights, ten, eleven years ago. Lecture me later about the dangers of drinking and chopping.
It was summer. Heavy night air. Waiting for the evening was your only relief - not that it was an issue. This was a time when I slept late and played all night. "Hippie goth" were the cries when I would tumble into the coffee shop; tangled curls, probably dyed black, sparse tanktops, fluttery black skirts that wound so picturesquely about my ankles, feet bare. More often than not I smelled of nag champa oil and spice, glitter sprinkled freely everywhere. Black lace and sparkles, night air and woodsy musk.
I lost to chess, Ivan the Russian beat me every time. I'm certain several of us argued about who knows what, fueled by 'Chemical's,' Timothy's four-shot concoction, iced mocha with white and dark chocolate. The drink was thick and laid heavy on your tongue, bittersweet and cold as it slid down your throat. No amount of mastery has ever been able to perfectly duplicate that drink in my kitchen.
One am, two am, three am and the coffee shop is closing. A small group of us were not yet ready to go to bed. Satan and the diminutive Wendy-bird are the ones I clearly remember. Maybe Julie? Speedy? I don't clearly recall. We all went to my small studio apartment, where Satan proclaimed it would be an excellent place to get high, so many things to look at.
Four in the morning and I'm happily making alfredo sauce, boiling pasta, brownies in the oven for this group of people I called friends ten years ago. I remember the sighs of delight, the declarations of love. Who can turn down cheese and chocolate in the wee hours of the morning?
That's all, really. No point to this rambling entry. A song brings up a singular snapshot, a happy moment. So pale and sleepy, stirring sauce as the sun comes up. Part of a community in a way that I've never been able to recreate - or perhaps I'm just too scared to.