friendship and goodbyes.

I shouldn't have waited. Last time I said that friendship was a topic for another day, and now I've lost my train of thought. Two months will do that to you. I'm a terrible blogger. I wouldn't be surprised if no one read this thing because of how infrequently I post. Terrible.

I think I have a different take on the whole topic of friendship than I did back in the summer. Working alone for a month has made me see it in a different light. Often friendship is simply conversation to fill in the silence. This is probably a horrible way of looking at it, but it's true. Once Reuben was back at school, there was a silence in the truck that needed filling. For most of the month I used the radio, especially the Kid Carson Show on the Beat or Jeff O'neil on the Fox. But yesterday I just turned it off. Silence isn't so bad from time to time.

There is something different about real people, though. They don't have an off switch, and very rarely to they need one. I can't think of a time this entire summer where I wanted to turn Reuben off. Or any of my friends for that matter (well maybe there was that one night, Gordon). Being in close contact with Reuben all summer, you'd think there would be a moment, a day even, where I'd be annoyed, but nothing comes to mind.

I'm leaving them all behind. And it makes me nervous. I've had this feeling, about the weight and texture of a potato, in my gut for about a week. Friends are the sticky substance trying to keep me in Langley. Do you know what I'm talking about? People keep on asking me if I'm excited to go to Montreal, and I consistently lie and say, "oh, totally," or something lame like that because it's what's expected. I don't want to go. I love my home. That's a lie, too. I do want to go, but I know I'll miss everyone here, and I'm not looking forward to missing people. I have good friends.

I won't be writing on here while I'm gone. I've set up a website, www.whistlehum.com for my podcast, and i'll be blogging on there quite regularly, to keep everyone at home caught up. anyone who reads this is more than welcome to take a look.

so long, for now,
your ticketytaptyper.

Daft Punk makes me want to paint. I realized this yesterday while Reuben and I took turns mowing a pond in South Surrey with the four-foot. I haven't painted since grade seven and hadn't felt the erg until yesterday. I wanted to paint squares of all colours, mostly bright, randomly placed on canvas, like a broken Rubik's cube.

When Reuben started mowing that thing late-yesterday afternoon, stopped in the center to lift the blades, it looked as though he was cutting down the African plains. It's moments like those I wish I kept a camera on me at all times. Not a lame camera phone, like the one we used to take pictures of the baby birds, but one with manual focus, like Nick's. But he has it on his trip to Osoyoos. I think that's how you spell it, Osoyoos, but I'm not sure. It's got a little red line under it, but it's the name of a place. I'll leave it.

I just finished reading Don Miller's "Through Painted Deserts" and it made me want to write, so here I am. I think that's how I decide if art or literature is good. If it makes me want to makes things, too. Like Daft Punk and painting.

If I follow through with my thoughts this morning, I'll start writing letters to far way friends. Don wrote about meeting up with a pen pal in his book, and it made me realize that no one writes letters anymore. Email and blogs have taken over, and that's too bad, I think. There's something about taking the time to write to someone else with a pen, folding it, putting it in an envelope, writing two addresses on the outside, stamping it, and sending it off. It takes effort and love to do that. I guess that's what you're really sending off, effort and love. All we get in the mail now is coupons and news.

Dan, Dave and I talked about music and movies at Boston Pizza last night. I mostly listened, realizing I know a lot less about both topics than these two. I simply don't have the funds to see and/or hear all that. The conversation always moves on to Bob Dylan somehow. I'm listening to him play the harmonica right now. Dan and Dave agreed that "Visions of Johanna" is and effing flawless song, while they smoked cigerettes and looked as much like the man as possible. It made me want to listen to that whole album, "Blonde on Blonde." I didn't finish it last night, so I listened to the end this morning. It's over now. The headphones are only warming my ears and making them ring.

I'd talk about friendship, but that's another entry for another day.

podcasts. how do you start one? i am. whistlehum.com. i can't wait. i'm going to involve everyone. you will be in my liner notes.

i like songs that bite truth. if "truth" was a music genre, that's what this conglomeration of songs would be put under. a group of songs that you can't ignore.

if you're podcast's website is whistlehum.com, is that the name of your podcast? i still want my name to be clapfm. i still love that idea.

i'm always tempted to start smoking. odd, i know. but it's just so cool. all the cool people smoke. i just realized why sunglasses are cool. look at the word cool. weird.

cold upper lip.

I miss march.

lackadaisical.

how do you spell laxidazicle? Laxidasicle. Lacksidasicle. Laksidasicle. Laxidasical. Laxidazical. Lacksidasical. Lakidasicle. Lakidazical. Lakidasical. Lacidasical. Lacidazical. Lacidazicle. Lacidasicle. All wrong. I give up.

mooks and midriffs.

the world is a sad, sad place. The Good Shepard's come, but no one is following. This issue has laid dormant in my mind for awhile, but learning about mass media and culture has shaken it awake. Just look at the original midriff, Ms. Spears. (Not to mention, the original anti-midriff, Avril Lavigne.)

plaid shirt, brown pants.

I borrowed my younger brother's shirt today, but it's a little big for me. How depressing. When I put my arm through it, I noticed it was made by Levi's, along with my pants. For some reason that meant that it must look good with them. And it did. It helped me get over the fact that I probably look like a coat hanger in it.

people always think Nick is older.

the bus.

I'm at a bus station but there aren't any buses coming. I'm just sitting there. I was too late, or they're on strike, or the apocalypse happened without my knowledge and bus driving - along with regular attendance on transit vehicles - was the answer to life, so I got left behind.

the new blog.

So I'm going to start. writing, that is. It's about time. I'm listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young for the first time. My little brother bought it with his HMV gift card he got for Christmas, what was that, three weeks ago? I have to say, I'm impressed. thoroughly, thoroughly. They just don't make it like they used to. well, some do. Not enough of them though.

Actually, I don't know if I believe that. What I mean is, I like the words and music of Wilco and the Arcade Fire just as much as the Beatles and the Who. Anyway, before the music snob demon starts using me again, I'll stop. I won't bow down. I won't.

So Bethany and I are in a strange place right now. I mean, we broke it off on Friday, but today is Monday and we had a conversation this afternoon almost as if nothing had happened. And it was nice. I won't get too deep into it. It's a helpless situation right now. Helpless, helpless, helpless.
Sing it, Neil. Sing it. We'll let God figure it out if it's so helpless.