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this is the day

This is the day. The epic banging downstairs has subsided, appearing randomly at no earlier that 6 at night when it does. There is no good explanation for why I restrung the old guitar today, and then the new one. I am almost drunk on the smell of their cases, like a museum of good intentions - here are scraps of paper with old lyrics on them, a spare cable, a phone number from a show three years ago. I have been writing these songs for over a year now, and today is the day the good microphone went on a stand.

That is how things happen - when you least expect them.

It is a fairly terrifying moment.

I think we all like to say "we need to get out of our comfort zones" which mostly means something like bungee jumping, or getting a new haircut. The idea of singing the confessions of a bunch of imaginary people feels like walking a tightrope with no net. Seeing it done well does not give me any false confidence. It just makes me respect those brave souls that shoulder a guitar …

the black sands of Ureki


I wonder what might happen if we all measured time by how often we stand looking out at the ocean. The muscle of the sea turns in on itself, a clock, a pendulum, a rocking chair. All at once, the fragrance of salt and seaweed returns, that sticky perfume on the back your arms as you step into a cool elevator, and to the hushed room. There is a balcony, and almost a view. Trees are bending in a low wind. The sound of children laughing filters up to us.

V is jumping on the bed, more puppy than three year old. E is shuffling around the space as if she is measuring it, shoulders hunched in curiosity. N is already unpacking the suitcases, lining the shelves in the closets until she is satisfied.

There is black, magnetic sand here in Ureki. They say it has magic properties, that it can cure your ills. I see children that look like they have been rolled in black tar, with grandmothers spraying the sand off of them, as they shout from the cold water. The black sand scatters across floors, the insides of shoes. I imagine we will take a good amount back with us, without knowing it.

I get a proper sunburn on the first day, my skin staring back at me that night, that red face of mine in the mirror. There is a bottle of cold wine, with great beads of sweat running down its sides. A table on the balcony, a little chair that is already familiar. Here, I will write more of that new book when everyone has gone to sleep, when the only sound will be the scratch of my pen on good paper, and the sea.

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