My bed is a biosphere, a self-contained ecosystem. This becomes apparent each morning at around 6:30, when the impatient alarm interrupts my dream ((in which I, charming as a tremulous Trudeau, pirouette behind the Queen's back)) and forces me to poke my head into the cold gray dawn. Climate change becomes undeniable when my bare feet hit the wood floor.
It's on those mornings I realize that Sam Beam is providential. When you can't stay in bed past the 12 bells, Iron & Wine is the countervailing measure to take. Sometimes the cover art alone is sufficient: a gentle man laying on his back in newly mown grass (with air perfumed, I'm sure, by burning firewood). But mostly, it's the sound: guitar strings plucked like strands of spiderweb caught in the breeze of his willowy whispered breath.
When piped through headphones, the 15 minute tundra-trudge to school becomes less bleak. My ears rejoice while I curse the cold: "no more snow, no more snow."
I think I just became cerebrally inebriated after reading that beautifully lyrical (and uncharacteristically non-prosaic) biographic musing. Have you been hitting the poetry again m' boy? I don't know what to say, I'm too stirred...
(cold morning song of late: Elliot Smith's "Pitseleh" from XO. )
Posted by
Anonymous |
9:42 AM
Living in a hard wood floor apartment has created a new definition of pain for me in the mornings this winter. It wasn't too bad this morning, as it is getting a bit warmer in Princeton. Hopefully the winter is going away for good. Have fun in the end stretch of the quarter.
Pedro
Posted by
Peter Bratt |
9:29 AM