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.
