They Eat Trees in Canada

I think this John Stewart quip from yesterday's Daily Show must have prompted one particular part of my dream last night. In it, I stood on a bridge overlooking some body of water, trying to ward away a trio of anthropomorphized beavers. They wore wigs or hats, and faded tags that warned people to hum or maintain eye contact in order to avoid being attacked. So I stood on that bridge, staring down these beavers while striving to hum them away.

Dreams as bizzare as this occur so frequently that they no longer warrant a "Wtf?" moment upon waking.

The Upwellings of Memory

I like when memories take you by surprise, that sudden recollection of smell or sound or sight that comes unbidden. You again possess knowledge of what was perhaps lost, another piece of yourself has returned to you.

Today I was doing some research on David Sedaris, and how he had gotten his big break reading his "SantaLand Diaries" essay on NPR back in 1992. The description triggered a memory, though I didn't even know who Sedaris was at the time - I had heard this broadcast. Christmas week, 2004. A hotel room in New York City, my first visit there. I'd turned on the radio, tuned it to NPR, a holiday broadcast. I specifically recall Sedaris singing a carol in the style of Billie Holiday (I didn't know who she was then, either).

Just to be sure, I found the broadcast online, and listened to it. Yep. David Sedaris, singing like Billie Holiday.

I remembered.

Street Talk

Snippets gleaned from the street.

Morning - a hoarse, moderately low male voice with a New York accent:
"She was a real looker back in her day."

Morning - brisk weather, a woman with sharp gestures and punching delivery:
"In general, stagehands are assholes."

Letdown

My coffee has failed my expectations. Or perhaps it was my senses that let me down.

To fight off the post-lunch, middle-of-the-afternoon lethargy, I'd fixed myself a cup of joe. Two creams, two sugars, nothing fancy. Coffee nonetheless, with its inimitable smell: nutty, rich, a slight hint of vanilla - something with depth and nuance. At least, that's what my nose promised me. My taste buds, however, were unimpressed.

Just savor that bouquet - this is amazing! enthused the olfactory.

Don't know what you're talking about, retorted my mouth. It's sweet and a little watery, very blah.

But smell it, insisted my nose.

But taste it, my mouth mocked back.

When the coffee's only half-enjoyed, the glass is definitely half-empty.

Lucky

In the current revival of Waiting for Godot, John Glover's Lucky reminded me of a blown racehorse wrecked by too many times round the track with a rider who didn't spare the whip. With stringy hair and reddened eyes, he wheezes and coughs most pitifully, cheeks working like a mad puffer fish. His voice echoes his spindly limbs, reedy and trembling, yet capable of enduring....and rambling.

Quaquaquaquaqua.

Poor wretch.

Twitter Knockoff

In the absence of a decent amount of time for me to sit down and formulate proper blog posts (or proper writing of any sort - this whole 9-to-5 thing really throws a spanner in the artistic works), I've decided to resort to short, Tweet-like statements. My own version of Twitter, if you will, with only my time and demands to limit the characters.

Better a trickle of words than a drought.