but it's a warm fire that glows. rekindles not devours. y'know, s'weird filling my head with (something something, as daphne carr was saying last night) constructed/produced "knowledge about popular music" all the time, such that i get these phrases stuck there - "cold bleak heat: it's magnificent, but it isn't war" - and they tumble around all the time, evocative of something but nothing, catchier probably than whatever music they originally once attached to, which i usually have no idea what it was (apparently it's punk jazz), but there are the words. [cold bleak heat - sounds intense, sounds...wait, cold heat? whoa.]

well, among other words - another one is "i was gasping for contact," which comes from this postcard of a piece of art that's on the wall of alyssa's bedroom, right above my head as i type. i like to play with it: grasping for contacts? another is "...and now we call it gravy," which is from the italian market cookbook, but my subconscious thinks is like some universally recognized saying that i can reference and people will understand. good one for thanksgiving.

actually it's the opposite: a warm welcoming chill. i've been enjoying the cold viscerally, surprising me even, the actual tangible enjoyment, not just lack of displeasure. vitality, i guess. the joys of bundling too (downside: too many pockets.) and biking in philly (so warm), running in rochester (warming up to a full dash around the reservoir - i got some nu shooz and they are sooo ugly! but better on the road), walking in new york city (which has actually been markedly warmer so for - warm enough not to notice.)

what makes a man start fires? i made one in our living room on thxgiving (though we barely enjoyed it - we were too busy in the dining room, mesmerized by the citrus slices in the water pitcher and wondering, why do limes sink and lemons float? get this: it has to do with density! probably.) there was also this one (can you see that?) the fire's in my eyes and the flames need fanning. no...i mean, it's in our hearts. something about stars? (in our living room, after the it isn't war?) gah. make it stop.

and why am i talking about the weather again? and the time of year? i think i was just trying to paraphrase what i said to liz this morning, realizing that it's practically december and december will be like december is: fast and busy and cold and cozy and, by turns communal and alienating, for those so inclined. i'm in new york now (did i mention that?) and it's _christmas in new york_. which is all right. playing with people and subways and food, and mostly playing with words. mine or yours. (or my dad's, or l. mcmurtry's - i'm almost done with lonesome dove, i swear. finished the guralnick, finely. bought this last night after hearing half of its contributors talk about/read from their essays. "momentary." woot! maybe i'll talk about that at the other blog. it was EMP in two hours or less.)

ok, so life recap: last week (i mean, the one before thanksgiving - two weeks ago) i very literally left the house no more than a couple of times all week. once for vegan luncheonette with dave g, once for movie (no country for delicate-sensibilitied rosses) and dinner and kitten-klaw-klipping with/without dave m. otherwise i was in my house, in my jams, WRITING abt MUSIC. (spec. teen pop, mostly, not again, but for once, and it's getting interesting, and i'm having fun editorializing contextually while keeping objective contentfully...ok, i'll save it for the other place too.)

then the weekend came and i was working at the cafe, and pretending that i would get to bed early so to wake up early for it, but instead i saw romance and cigarettes (bad title, awesome movie! RFG! albeit preposterous) and saw mr. marmalade (awesome! but _dark_. i thought anyway) and 'played 1950s board games,' or something? i don't remember, and still only stayed up til like 2 or something. sunday i finally crashed, a little, except it was more like holing up in tired-boo. it's nice to be tired, somebody said.

and monday i managed to get practically all of my laundry and packing and moving (all my belongings from the third floor the first, so it could be refinished), and lunch with rebecca, and have a drink with kate before this concert (bowerbird site can has permalinkage? anyway, xprmntl improv is fine, but semi-composed ethnmsclgy take-off string hoo-hah is finer) and still be at the train station in reasonable amount of time for getting to new york unreasonably late.

and then it was thanksgiving. home. family. nephewniecelings. picture books. sweaters. bread pudding in the pumpkin shell. kim sisters. boyfriends. euchre. contradance. etc!

[lars and the real girl 7.6/10. superbad 9.4/10. she's the man. 6.2/10. missed american graffiti at the dryden, which would have made a nice h.s. triptych.]

and now i'm here, that's about it. ok now? more stuff:

"iMacs" homophonous w/ "IMAX." both rhyme with "no climax" - which one is will robinson sheff saying? works both ways?

encountered in the process of trying to research for a review of rachel stevens' album:
word, dawg.
whoa, dude.
[parents strongly cautioned: some sexual material. (as per the opening warning screen on she's the man.) but em it's for a good cause!]

two lyrics, take your pick:

i took a plane, i took a train
(ah! who cares, you always end up in the city
stranded at bleecker and broadway
looking for something to
do

. . .

i've got friends with the sweetest wives
they've got beautiful kids
they lead meaningful lives
in the suburbs just out of town
love is all around

Labels: citrus buoyancy, in/activity, movie ratings, music, phraseology, temperature, uncontrollable pop-cultural reference impulses