Yesterday was Tuesday- Wilco

I just got the new Wilco album- 'Sky blue sky'.
Manuel Presti on the cover.
I switched the jacket so that the peregrine is on the front.
Manuel Presti is exceptional. His photos are as edible as a 'cookie monster' cake.
'Either way' (first song) gave me goose skin. There is something so perfect about Wilco when they get it right. Talk about edible work.
I hunger for Wilco, Amset, Stereolab, Galaxie 500, Joanna Newsom, Mum, Sigur Ros.

'Either way' makes me think of 'Yellow panties'. The guitar and simple beats make me imagine a softly sunny December day. Brunch with 'Yellow panties' somewhere in New York. Wine. A nice, long walk afterward. The mosaic of shadow and cold light draws us together and makes us pause for warmth. Talk about edible light. Up to the park. Noses, sniffling and wet from the cold. Her cheeks, red and cold. Her lips, dry and cracked. We are wearing caps, scarves and light jackets. No gloves. I kiss her hands which warms my stomach. She looks at me. I think I see doubt in her eyes which makes me hunger for her lips. Her ears are distorted from the pressure of her cap while her hair is peaking out from underneath it. Brown eyes. She is wearing corduroys and black shoes. I am too embarrassed to peer below the belt, and dare not look at her chest. The wind is gusting down the avenue. I want to tell her, 'you are the wind of Primavera that is blowing through my veins. I can taste you as your delicate, perfumed touch caresses my skin and organs. Your slight whisper hints at the beautiful futures to come.' Instead, I reach for her and kiss her lips. They are warm but lack moisture. We breathe into each other and it smells of sweat and wool. I think that she is pulling away from me. I realize that my hands are around her waist. I loosen my grip, but she does not retreat. I reach up and grab the back of her head and neck, just below her ears. Her cap falls to the sidewalk; her hair whips my face, stirred by the stiff December wind, and my zealous attempts to capture the wind. When we stop. I see hesitation in her eyes. She is biting her lip like she wants to say something, but is unable or unwilling to find the words.
We continue our walk to the park. Carts of roasted chestnuts line the avenue, but I still smell her. I want to put this wind in a jar, and keep it on a shelf. Open it up sometime in the future.
I am sure the footbinder has a jar somewhere in that palace of junk. She cracks it open on some special day. Unearthing old memories of love, unrealized.
That jar will sit there, on my shelf in my library, reminding me of how foolish I was to think that I could encapsulate her love. She does not love me and never has. My veins will course with the tumult, torrent, tempest of imagined love. And, my only relief will come by releasing the wind in my veins. I will have no strength or agility in my hands, and the glass will be too slippery to grip. I will throw the jar at the expanding pool of blood on the floor, but, in a final mocking moment, the jar will carom onto the couch. The curtains will dance and sway in the pulsing air.

I saw Saturn tonight. Bright and beautiful. Tucked back in the darkness. It looked a bit like an egg, nestled in a nest. The rings were delicate and intense and made me very happy. I was shaking the whole time. I felt a bit dirty; like sneaking a glance at 'yellow panties' crotched jeans.

I need to see 'yellow panties' tomorrow. I have been avoiding her, but I need to see her. I need to talk to her directly. Look at her eyes to see if I have any chance. It is so easy to be sneaky. Stalk her, but I am not sure that that is the best way. I need to be direct with her. Ask her out for coffee or tea. I wish I had a pair of her panties with me. I could hold them until my hands become clammy. I could feel them snagging on the stubble of my face as I rub them to release their scent. I would hold them between my chin and chest, like vick's vapor rub, and let them soothe me into a restful slumber; and I would eat them in the morning.

Xioba