after one last summer of cottages, palm-beers floating on the lake, faceplanting into the waves while trying to kneeboard, badly-planned but perfectly-timed trips to toronto for shows (getting kurt viled) the family casa (host of many ragers and teenage kicks) was sold and georgian bay was no longer home. my parents bought a new truck and moved what was once 15 quesnelle drive down to cape breton island, three quarter million in pocket and i, i had a resurgence of old feelings towards a girl i won't name brought on by our rekindled friendship after the death of my best friend, (nothin' helped me get thru those months quite like that smile) and after an embarrassing night spent having various altercations (fisticuffs) with a young birch tree behind my pal's place i hopped in my '03 volvo and sped west like that old man once told dean to do. dust flying thru the open windows and my split knuckles smilin' at the fat old sun.
that summer the bookstore, where i bought so many weathered novels, died and the man who was its overseer, with whom i spent so many evenings philosophizing over cups of joe in the closed-up shop , sort of faded away; i'd see him thursdays at the study sipping whatever he drank there in the corner and always felt too bad about the closing of cottage books, ashamed in a word, to ever go over and buy the guy a beer. still don't know why. guess i'm a bit of a *****.
that drive out west was good. made 10 mixes in addition to CDs i already had and slept on the highway side and stopped where ever the hell i wanted to stop. smoked cigars while blazing over the pavement with my life in the backseat at 120 km/h not knowing how to feel, but doing alright.
i haven't written a ****** thing in two years, so be patient with me.