Needle prick my spruce root / Dear little hemlock shoot / Make me stay sharp and keen, evergreen. ¶ As I write this I'm sipping a boxed merlot from a plastic wine cup, listening to Pauline's iPod on the speakers Aird gave me. As I glance to my left, I see her. She is standing on a chair and painting onto her fabric canvas. Through her illuminates the facade of a dilapidated building. The merlot is nice—don't let my winking description fool you—I discovered Three Thieves Bandit a few months ago. One thing I am not a snob about is next-generation packaging. Bring it on, I say. ¶ Sitting in Pauline's studio reminds me of nights in my father's Dalhousie office, circa 1985. I don't remember if I was there alone, or with my brothers, or if it was for a short time, or a long time. I do remember relishing it: the eggshell rotary phone with the red light (always wanted one of those), the calendar on the desk, and all the other slight but crucial differences between this office and the one at home. The smell of books coupled with stale coffee and radiator. The distinction was real. To me what's interesting about this memory is not the uniqueness of it. Not only does every professor's child have memories like this, but my bet is pretty much most of my peers do. What's interesting is that for the longest time, say my teens and early twenties, I fabricated a different office aspiration. Lush grey carpeting and the six-going-on-seven figure view. But that was merely a blip. I still aspire, mind you. Now my dream is to own a building of offices, of offices inside offices. Each slightly different but all with bulletin boards and books and pens and portraits.

Labels: Lyric, Vague

¶ 7:28 PM
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