On the streets today, people seem so smart and full of Spring. Though the temperature has dropped ten degrees from its high, the sun is still shining. It's 32 degrees and sunny in New York City.
Happy Friday, lovely. I'm sorry for missing you yesterday. I started on several different entries, actually, but none went where I wanted. Which isn't necessarily bad — entries often take unexpected turns — but these entries, in particular, simply seemed not right enough for this space.
While riding the F train this morning, I, for some reason, found myself face down on the Hawkins Street School asphalt. All over again, on this hot, summer, 5th grade afternoon: Jose Quiros pushed his weight down against my lower spine, clenched his angry hands around my 10-year old throat, and announced, clearly and confidently: "I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you..."
While Buddha keeps asking me about hands, and Wonko wanted to know more about the glove, Christian had some more practical questions. First, he asked, "What are you running through the Moscode now? Are you still using the Arcam as your source, and are you running it through the Arros or the DeVores?"
Last night, I sat down for a bit with Anthony Hamilton and his open road. You're what I want. You're what I need. You touch the deepest part of me. And these loose and tenuous warbling riffs stretched out wide across my windows, parting the curtains and welcoming in the neon lights from the bar on the other side of Monmouth.
Jon Iverson remembers when Moscode amps came equipped with a diaper. "The instructions," he reminisces, "suggested the listener put it on before firing up the amp for the first time."
A special treat today: the new Rye Coalition album, Curses, to be released by Gern Blandsten on April 18th, arrived in our office. Robert brought it over to me. I've been listening to it all day.
For the last couple of days, I've been listening to one special CD from start to finish, and over and over again. I don't want it to ever end. Elizabeth must be sick of it. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. But, no: she's not sick of it because she understands. She knows what this is all about. And when I'm not listening to it, I'm holding onto it tightly, smiling over the lovely cover of sweethearts and peaches, reading the song titles from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. Memorizing the shade of red, imagining her hands putting it all together.
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