Outside the written word and on a yellow horse

The weekend had me social in Greece, Poland, the Netherlands. The Polish ones charmed me into the kitchen and made me drink rum & coke, play pick-up sticks, eat poppy bread, walnuts dipped in honey, raisins, a partial bagel. I did not fight them off. The walls were bright orange and yellow. Greece was a sturdy hula hoop. The bald pierced one thinks he can no longer be a child. Horse hoof! Fleeting painter, I got called beautiful. Sleep deprivation shades perspective. In a bistro, the Netherlands poured down my throat Heineken, Stella Artois, and fine red wine, insisted my belly have in it lentil soup, grilled tuna and vegetables, coconut ice cream. Dutch history turned into tales of Bangkok and back to Mexico and disparate trips in life jackets backward down canals. In one creation myth gods pierce their penises. Blood spills and something is born. Guitar sounds roll in circles before the polka is loud and the au pair dances. The sun rises and some people still haven’t slept. Fortuity escalates in this very air.

Yesterday I threw green paper down on a counter and got these in return: Neko Case—Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, which particularly pleases me, and Built to Spill—You in Reverse. Doug Martsch will always please me, sometimes more than others.

Right now I could go for a pineapple. And an elephant ride, a sabbath, and a loom.