Milk

It's small things like resting my cow tongue in between the car head rest and the edge of the door that make me appreciate living a lot more than I usually would. We were heading north on the 405, and the first few tracks of Ágætis Byrjun served as good company, along with crumpled Blacks and boy scout shorts that felt better with the heat tingles provided by sunlight. I wish my breath stayed around a bit longer, instead of escaping out of the three and a half inch window gap that I was forced to deal with. I couldn't hear the strings in "Starálfur", but no biggie. Things felt good. Things felt familiar. I had been there before, at special points and not so special points of this county. I had been there before in the dull calidity of Gilbert, Arizona. In the highbeam lit highways beside the endless ranches of Lompoc, California. I haven't gone very far, but my mind has already been nourished with the colors of strangers that I purposely come across on a daily basis, and by strangers I mean a fear of rain seeping under tarp, lounging with seat stealers from New Jersey, hard laughter in Winnetka, soft laughter in freshly cooked duplexes, and my rusty fretting at the Knitting Factory. My everyday is as cluttered as my neglected Ikea desk, but in a more enjoyable way, and it's all usually motivated by one thing: Stories that I could later ponder while appreciating reverb in early Field Mice songs, or playing air guitar to some Saves the Day. My favorite thing in the world is assigning these songs, and wishing they could be shared while a certain experience is taking place, but that would probably deprive us of our hearing, or focus I guess.