Feb 9th 2010

It's 2010, undeniably. Lights illuminate the sky, no clouds tonight though, can't predict everything. The beams call out 'Police State!' (only temporarily though) as much as they beckon each vigilante. Batman won't sleep tonight and neither will those who share his call. The city projects rainbows into the beams, as if to soothe it all. But light doesn't soothe or calm, it highlights, irritates, illuminates. The vigilantes rise.

In a small backyard garage on Main and 7th a crew of folk, as I would call them, weld, nail, hammer, bang and smooth pieces and parts into place and spot. Things settle, the energy is Productive, the music is Neutral Milk Hotel. The wood smells, the shavings floating like snow in any other prairie land, resting on nostril hairs like flakes on eyelashes. Dirt and earth and hands and objects. Things. Worthy of building. Community worthy of acknowledging. A cool air which stops nothing.

Reach over and grab that jar, filled with the Chocolate Stout that pairs with sandusted nose hairs like honey and lemon. Smooth and poignant, cigarettes and stories of galvanized nails in fingers that aren't stories if you're Tyler from Surrey.