pluck nine shiny yellow lemons from the pile, put them in your basket, find the strawberries, try to decide through the clear plastic clamshell boxes which ones contain the best and most delicious strawberries, put two of them in your basket too, and one pink grapefruit, then purchase them and leave the store. peel what needs peeling, tear them apart, lick the tart juices running down to your elbows, smile, laugh, (try to find someone pretty to help), put them in a medium sized pot, then rummage through a kitchen drawer until you find a neglected potato masher, one rarely used no matter how delicious mashed potatoes are because there is just never find time in a busy life to make them, and use it to squish the pulpy sour lemons and the pink grapefruit that squirted while it was being skinned until they are mostly juice. while doing this, the pretty helper should have washed the strawberries in bracing cold water, clear and fresh and cool, and begun to pry the stems out with a fingernail, delicate and certain. they should then open the berries as if they were lips, something sweet to kiss, and toss the pieces in with the wet and acidic mess in the pot, brightening it with berry blood the colour of love and good music. when the first box of plump and perfect strawberries is gone, pressed into the rest of the liquid, take the pot, thanking the pretty assistant, fill it with beautiful water, enough to cover the mixture three times over, and put it on the stove to boil like a mysterious teenage dream of summer. when the mixture has begun to boil, possibly stir in with a wooden spoon, cracked perhaps from being left in the sink too long last month, a cup of the darkest demera sugar, as unprocessed as sugar can be, flavourful as honey. after thirty minutes of bubbling, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom, take the pot from the stove and place it inside the fridge, as arctic and pale as fake fox fur. the frost will lick it clean. when it is cold, it is ready to drink. enjoy.
Tag: santapau
colour
Song of the Week: Dirty Laundry.
It was like we were watching the dawn together through the slate gray rain as it fell in Chile. “How many miles away are we?” I asked. “Every mile,” he replied. I said, “We are the future, this morning.”
We had stayed up all night, sending music across three time-zones and updating our theories on the thinly coloured sky, how the sun was coming to find us, neglectful of our beds in the light of our company, caught in the web at it’s late night best.
When I finally left my computer to sleep, it was bright outside, pale stone blue, like milk spilled on lapiz lazuli. The birds outside, huddled together on the wire, had begun to coo, an alarm clock in reverse, and our music playing was like our hands warmly holding across the distance, comforting and quiet. I wonder if we got it in sync.
The Rubber Science Ducks have finally run aground. There’s bounty on them too.
This week has felt long, stretched out, as something new happens every day and I struggle to find a meaningful habit of pattern. Every day flows free form and anchorless. It’s bad for me.
Yesterday I meant to re-write my resume, but instead Lung brought Dominique and I to a lake out past Sqaumish where the water was clear green and cold. Next to the highway, it was perfect British Columbia. We sat in our bathingsuits on a log jutting out into the water and complained the water was too cruel to swim. We sang along to our music and told stories about the first time we had heard certain songs.
The day before that I had planned to spend sliding down hills on ice with with Merlyn, grass stains mandatory, but instead I found myself visiting Chelsea in New Westminster with Jenn and Dominique, ultimately playing phone tag with him and missing him altogether.
Today I’m taking head-shots of Michael C. in exchange for lunch, other than that, I think it’s time again to plan an afternoon inside, crafting a resume to explain to the world that I am competent. Finally the summer is here and I am ignoring it.
When she leaves, she’s just asking to be followed
I feel like the vision of a girl who writes personality, warped and made prettier in water-paint parentheses. The Secret Knots is one of my silver cocaine addictions. I check it every Monday, a wrought iron internet-princess hoping for snow and honey to bleed distraction from Vancouver’s dirty tinsel sky. Of course, Spring has arrived, bringing with it art! weather! joy! and more Secret Knots!