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There is a book I am reading called The Happiness Project. There are two aging cats in my care for a few days and a gorgeous red dog with a solemn face and an active spirit that I can't get out of my mind. There is an apartment to find for some day in the future, without carpet please thankyou. There is some wine to finish up. There is work ahead for next week, industrial, olympic, non-profit, and a huge world-big party that is about to start in VanCity. There are friends with goodbyes and new people with the ghost of a goodhello lingering around the edges of short term memory. There are lessons, sometimes good and sometimes the kind you want to drop-kick to the nearest curb, that are unavoidable once you've decided it's more fun in the deep end of the pool. There is damage to be undone and damage to be loved to be graced and there is work so much work to change into play to change into life into meaning into beauty. There are faces to see to stop judging to love without demeaning your self to just love whatever that means. There are assumptions that should never be made, relationship games that drain life. There are so many books to read. So many pictures to be taken. There is money to be saved because there are countries to be seen and oh my goodness there is the Eames chair still. There is dancing, laughing, hugging it out. There are so many things you can grasp for and lose, grasp for and break, grasp for and never rest with and see. There are dust bunnies. There are cars that need oil. There are parking spots somewhere out there. There is Laundry so much laundry. There are 21 kms and 26 postures and a body that is confused by the sudden movement. There are new running shoes, remember the new running shoes. There is sweat, there is nervous energy, there is the euphoric sense of accomplishment. There is conversation that makes no bloody sense or that makes perfect sense or that never happens at all. There are doors that should be closed but keep popping open, swinging on their hinges and squeaking when you wish they wouldn't. There are Facebooks and Twitters and what next maybe Flutters all through which I spy with my little eye and you spy with your little eye but wait, we never talked about what colour we're looking for and in the end You and I are Close but No Cigar, partial stories without eyes and hands, disembodied lives, but entertained, aren't we entertained, behind the singular glow of our flat-screen panel. There is a love of words, of stillness and yet a lightness of spirit an ease-ness of mind and open arms. Because. There is contentment and there is itching but there is learning to love the undeniable truth that contentment and itching sit together in tension all the time and isn't that actually beautiful.

There is a candle on my table and fingers that are going to stop typing.
Now.

Peace, friends and strangers and friends who are strangers and strangers who are friends.
T.

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The Avett Brothers and a little I And Love And You: