Mon coeur est une grenouille

Hello, blue, blue, blue. The skirt people are flapping their petals today but hey ho I am sunburnt, and stay-at-home and throaty. There's an amphibian working its way up from some subterranean hidey-hole and I don't think he wants to make friends. Go flip in the sun like a banana pancake was the advice and bake, bake out the ill like so many batter bubbles rising up to the surface until at last...go to. I am done.

Froglegs are for a summer day, all crispidy and tender. Were it not for unfortunate associations with class hegemony, I'd gobble them up right quick.

Suspiciously delicious (a suspect novelty)

Let it be known.

I require many bananas.

Resident New Yorkers take note.

Reading with the ears

It's been a few days since The Books took the stage here in DC but I still have flashbacks in vivid color and gyrating shapes. But maybe that's because I'm still trying to get my head around the experience. To see them live was more surreal than I imaged: notes struck, voices spoke from the corners of the room and in the center two men with a cello and guitar seemed to hold completely still, the center of some sort of muti-media tableau vivant.

It helped too the the audience was completely mesmerized by the beautiful, odd videos broadcast in counterpoint to the music (these were unpolished footage, most often straight out of arcane training video, home movies and cable public access, rearranged into careful collages) I remembered to glance down at the stage all too seldom and I could easily imagine that the musicians sneaked in their playing between beats, waiting for all heads to turn away before they moved their fingers.

This isn't to say that the concert wasn't amazing; it most certainly was. Listening to The Books comes in fits and starts for me and I hadn't had such a fit for a while. Revisiting the songs again re-awakened my wonderment that such artifacts of strange audiophiliac creation exist at all. I genuflected to their delicacy and to the painstaking hours that have gone into their construction. I hope to one day make sometime half so lovely.

Musee du printemps

The sky is opening here and things are beginning to die. The store mannequins, realizing that theirs is a sedentary lot, take leucadian leaps into vats of soup. It might have been delicious but their decapitated plastic corpses didn't harmonize, you see, neither with the oregano, nor the savory and thyme. They only floated aloof and greasy, a meal for the millers and the gobblers, oblivious, maybe, to all beauty.

And I wonder about the nonsensical connections between things. Why Auden means a bread with cranberries, and what Lincoln has to do with feeling flesh ripe, coarse, and unhomogenized under your fingers.

And then again.

Romance has stumbled its way out the door after a long and painful hangover --it was that party the summer before I reckon--- but not in the way that you'd think. Climbing over Lust, Hopeless Sensuality and the D-grade action flicks on the threshold, it takes one shuddering breath and then promptly goes back to bed.

Walking with my weekly onus of garlic, fish and courgettes I find the time to a form a passing crush. Yes, you with the worn shoes and well brushed greatcoat. What do you know about all this?