Right Hear

Ryan? A little music please.

It's fashion week here in the home town. Resulting in perpetual after parties, night clubs with faux starry night ceilings, and black heavily varnished tables positioned in large open spaces.

I join you at this late hour, gentle reader, from the darkest corner of my apartment. I am in bed with a dinner consisting of salsa flavoured potato chips teamed with pepperoni and cheese, packaged in a segregated container with meat on one side and cheese on the other.

Friday, my mother sent me a picture of my grandfather playing harmonica amongst a small gathering of friends in his basement. It's a window into the past. I can't take my eyes off of it, and for me, it's the sound. I can hear what that picture sounds like. The multi layered chatter, the sound of the harmonica, and the rustle of newspaper. Why are they all reading the newspaper?

Saturday I wound up unexpectedly at a tough bar on the strip. And I don't mean that to sound as sexy as it does. There were two fights and three physical evictions before I could find a seat to drink my cheap domestic. I sat in the very back with my headphones on and watched ultimate fighting championship until I was saved by to Adamina and Elema who were on route to a fundraising party for a local radio station.

Sunday Leroy and I went to a cd release party for a band that was recorded by the same studio that is currently hosting sessions for the band I play in. The music was dense even though it was all played by one guy who made loops on the fly with vocals, guitar, sax, keyboard, and little tykes toys. I told Leroy at the beginning of the evening that I would fall in love by last call.

Monday I had dinner with Katie. She had just moved into a new place and wanted to christen her kitchen with a special dinner. I arrived shortly after escaping the office to a one litre bottle of Becks in the freezer and an assortment of cheese, olives, and capers, all resting on a warmed baguette. Dinner followed, and I haven't eaten that well in some time. Throughout the evening we drank wine and looked out the window. My favourite thing about the view from her apartment is the assortment of flags standing tall over the disjointed landscape of early urban architecture. There's nothing lovelier than provincial silk blowing in the wind.

Before I could climb into bed after work for some recovery on Tuesday, Remington was buzzing the intercom for me to get dressed and meet him in the bar downstairs. I of course obliged, and found out that he needed a date to attend a fashion show in which he had done most of the sewing for. We had VIP seating and a pass to a party afterwards, which we could only tolerate for 15 minutes.

After a trip to seven eleven for some stay at home comfort foods, I logged into MSN Wednesday evening and found myself chatting with Elema. Before the hour struck we were in the old section of town, sharing thoughts and drinks, until her friend Ionette picked us up for a party to send someone off to Hawaii. Elema's sweater was lovely.

What does all this mean? Why am I bothering you with it? I don't know really, but it has to do with a moment of clarity achieved through the thumping bass of a club, the empty glasses on crowded tables, that sexy model who let her skirt ride half way up her hip as she charged down the runway, the smell of Katies hair, or maybe it was in the back of that scummy bar with a view of the setting sun splashing all over the train station outside. It doesn't matter, because I remember it well. It was an appreciation for the present, however ridiculous it might seem, and a knowledge and comfort in the inevitable truth that it most certainly won't last forever.