all the way to Dade County last night, making pit stops to lick blueberry pie from small jars and discuss the Mensheviks. Saylor and i debated semantics and berated semiotics, listening to Brian Eno and John Cale as Tarah drove us to North Miami.
we smelled the ketchup as it wafted across Biscayne Boulevard, making its way through the prostitutes and destitutes that litter US-1 from Key West to the Fort Kent Bridge in Maine, where johns bicker with the working girls over exchange rates. we played putt putt, and there was scattered talk of vrittis and anthroposophy until Tarah threatened to start shaking the bushes.
she tried to coax imaginary kittens from the dark, but a giant black rat kept vigil, and the kittens never came. we returned to all night diners feline free and drank milkshakes that never came, talking about how one December night with Stravinsky changed my whole life.
when Saylor asked why i run my experiments, i told him it was for nights like these.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
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This was a great night. I still have my blueberry pie jar, in which I mix green paint, not blue. It has a tight lid and keeps the paint fresh for a 13 months (and still counting).
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