miðvikudagur, apríl 19, 2006


This album. It brings it all back. That studio was freezing long into the spring, and it didn’t help that he’d lean out the window to smoke several times a session. The fumes were not bad, no solvents, only the smell of linseed oil and pigment. The feeling of concentration was quite intense, holding your head back and one arm raised, still, still, still, for fifteen, twenty minutes, longer. The cheap boombox played this album, and you would chat if he wasn’t working on your jawline or the light on the side of your face.

As a rule coffee next door, whether you really wanted it or not, because what else would you get? The beer was awful watery stuff named after a medieval shipping cartel and outrageously expensive even in there on the industrial east side. Mostly you just wanted to be indoors, on a decent chair, and so you poured obscene amounts of coffee past your teeth and hoped it would not curdle your dreams later.

There was usually snow in the street, and it would be colder and dark by the time you headed for home. You’d stop into the Chinese market and buy an egg yolk deep-fried in a sweet batter and rolled in sesame seeds. It was greasy, chalky, nutty, warm, and biting into it on the way to the train felt like eating the sun.

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