This phrase bobbed around in my head yesterday like the last, lonely pickle in the brine. I couldn't figure out how it got there, it just seemed 'apt'. Like a feint at maintaining the mystery of identity, or the answer (not that I hold much stock in those) to an unpronouncable question. Today, lo! what do I see but a Mtl hip-hop group holding session under that very same name. And so I decided not to write a blog about this, because that'd be some drivelly-shit.
Instead, I'd like to shimmer this around the day itself. Perhaps leaking a little of it into today as well. I got up. Made some coffee. Checked the blogs (Alas, before email these days. But not before making the day's first water: I've taken to not peeing-empty before going to bed, so as I can actually have some purpose in the mornings. I always wake up alarmed.) Mulched up some old cigarette butts so's I could reroll them and smoke. Drank that coffee. Worried over Lebanon a bit. Plonked on some headphones, wrote a few comments. Saw one arrive on the Who from Rogering Me. Good writer that guy (Seriously man, that 'decry the masturbatory wink and end up with Jeez on my hands' just split me in two. I'm sorry to've been so belicose, I hadn't eaten for close to 2 days, and though hunger, they say, is the best spice, it also gives me a mild bloodlust. My sister and I call it The Hanger. A question... why do you mention East Van? Funnily, I've only ever been swept through there by Lindz herself on the most comprehensive Couve-tour I could've ever ask for. With this, do you 'découvert' some of your you? I really would like to know more about that. Your you. You write how I always imagined my Pre-Socratic Phil prof, Eric Lewis, would.) Belligerated back to him once. And did a quick scouring of the kitchen. Found some festering tomatos with enough flies to've perked the maggot-interest of even the most inviolate of all-boy choral directors. I certainly didn't want to attract any of them into our house, so chucked that. Then cleaned some beer bottles and returned them for the jinglingly round sum of $7. And went straight to the grocer's. Whilst in the dairy aisle, I noticed a dark, winged shape crawling circles on my favourite tshirt (type 'Erik Bloodaxe' into google image, and look at second from left. I can't upload it for some reason.) It was a queen and prince (?) ant mating. He was at most a tenth her size, clinging to her abdomen like an all-boy choral director weeps on his driveway, folded over the trunk of his black Hyundai. Put my basket down -though I must admit I was tempted to see what copulating ants would feel like on my tongue- and went to the exit, pointing at my sleeve so's the checkout lady wouldn't think I was pulling a fast one. She said something like 'jusque faites le 'smoosh'', and I smiled benignly. I put them on a leaf in the alley behind the store, hoping they'd perhaps cuddle after, while reminiscing about their respective colonies. Then I bought some eggs ($1.90), spicy hungarian salami ($2.04), hamburger buns ($1.09!) and baby spinach ($1.79) and went home to make a pair of sarnies. Gobbled them up good, like a choral director ***segment retracted after editorial reflection*** and tucked in to reply Rogering Me again (Lindz, must've been sad, that exchange, like being 8 and having your mum talking about you to another mum, and craving to yell something like 'hey! fuckfaces!' without then knowing what a fuckface really was, going on only what some kid with a rat-tail named Brad told you was a bad word one day behind the portables.) I was smoking a cigar by then, as I had already rererolled all the cigarette butts. I smoked that nasty nub all the way to a sushi restaurant where Lori and her beau, Ben, sat with Gill and her beau Ben. We dug into a few morsels of sushi and then Carolyn came and we ate some more. We worried about Lebanon together. Lori foot my bill, the darling. It was delicious and the dumplings smelt like Tokyo. Then we went to Dieu de Ciel and I had to quietly marvel at Lori's presence (like an aurora had walked into the room). Then I pretty much went to bed.
Today: I worked a bit. Languidly. Looking out onto Hotel-de-Ville, smoking on the green just below Rachel where a silent trio of portuguese ladies sometimes go to swing away their hot flashes, smelling torturous Romado's chicken fumes from upwind, wondering if the remote controlled air-plane kid ever got his aircraft off the roof of the Franciscans', and wondering in turn how'd they've managed that (convince a bird to do it?) Then I got off work early, bought a 6pack of Tremblay (wanting to surprise Steve with a little something special) and wrote a blog entry. Then it got weird as I started outwriting myself, trapping myself forever in the last few words of the b-logos. Those last few words... Nul Si Découvert.