sometimes we live under a prussian blue moon

I arrived at work on Monday (after a lovely long weekend) to find my desk laden with anonymous gifts. Four envelope-yellow book-covers + a beautiful postcard of a raven print. Who could it have been but Smokey?! We were supposed to catch up at the Ox on Friday night, but she never made it. She mentioned having one of those teary, at-home nights + blamed the moon. Actually, that might explain Friday night more broadly, as it was a funny one for me too. After a gorgeous day of op-shopping antics, our night never quite got off the ground.

But it was last night that was nearly a teary one for me. Various factors – having worked a twelve hour day; getting stung with a parking ticket (st-rike two!); getting a call from Gemini who declined another invitation (st-rike two!); having the shits with P (st-rike ten thooousand!); + yes, my period is on its way. I resisted the urge to weep + turned to Smokey's gifts instead. Found that beautiful balance between moping + productivity with some melancholic creativity. I spent four hours scribbling away to a soundtrack of Ryan Adams, Bernard Fanning + Neil Young. Those sad country lads met my need for self-pity – always best expressed via a loud sing-along + occasional moist eyes. And the envelope-yellow book-covers coaxed me out of myself + onto paper. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the end result, but that wasn’t the point. A night which could have been filled with morose navel-gazing turned into something far more useful... + fun!

Thanks Smokey.