Two nights ago I pulled out the thermometer and discovered that it was 98 degrees in this old factory and tonight I’m getting the luxury of 92. If you live in Toronto and don’t have central air, I feel your pain. I’m getting a taste for the monsoon. I’ve devoured two mangos already, and picked the peelings clean… it’s nearly 3 am. I’m not sure why I’m up. I guess I’ve needed to start this writing, and that’s one reason, but it’s also the quiet at this time of night (despite the slick sound of traffic on the highway) and the rain, and the view from my window.
In this sweatshop we call home, we are truly blessed to have three large warehouse windows. One of them still retains the original 12 paneled wood and frosted glass construction and it weighs about as much as an average 5 year old. I’ve got it propped open, as far as it will go, with a very ghetto looking 2 by 4. If you push the pots of mint and rosemary aside, it’s the perfect spot to rest your elbows and watch the city. So that’s what I’m up to right now, eating mangos and watching the city and missing Chris, who has left for a 10 day tour out to San Francisco. It’s necessary to be able to miss people.
The humidity and smog mixed with the uncommitted drip of rain is swirling around the CN tower and the financial district so much that the buildings are almost hidden from view. The lights of windows, not the outlines, tell you where the buildings are; it looks like they’re emerging out of smoke. Words like creepy and beautiful can exist simultaneously. I love the sound of the late night train, steel on steel squealing.
This is my first official post. In 37 days, I’ll be leaving for a two month trip to India (with a quick stop into England for a week) and thought It would be best if I got used to writing up here. Once I hit India, I’ll probably be surrounded by the melodrama of 16 chat room affectionados in a 10 by 10-foot room. 92 degrees will be a joke. I will be distracted.
Here’s the scoop: I don’t want to go to India alone this time. I mean, without the grassroots army; without you. It’s really easy to disappear for a while but I feel the loss when I come back home. I’m the odd goose lagging behind the flock of geese; it decides to take a side trip and then returns to find that it’s companions have already moved on. I want to bring you along in my suitcase, or at least with words. That’s how India first came alive to me. It was the stories and photos of a good friend that became the springboard into the extreme loveliness and extreme ugliness that growls at you when you look a new culture in the eye. I have a brand new respect and sympathy for new immigrants. My western ego and the mantra of “express yourself and be who you are” was confronted by the reality of eastern dharma; of duty to one’s culture and family. One person will never manage to get a handle on thousands of years of a civilization, especially one as rich as India’s. Nevertheless, I hope you will fly with me on this one and that I will see you at the next show when I come home again. We’ll recognize each other by our funky goose squawkings.
Some of you wonderful people who have sent me mail in the last three years will be amused to know that I have finally finished answering those letters. If you’re one of those people and you’ve moved, might I suggest that you check back in here with me, since I will be the sad recipient of a “return to sender” marked envelope containing a whole lot of love and some damn fine “cut and paste.” I’d really like to get it to you.
I won’t go into too much detail yet, about what the last couple weeks have been like. I’ve been flying Pakistani paper kites from the roof almost every day and planning a 4-day canoe trip to Algonquin Park. For 15 years, I’ve wanted to go back and do the same route I did when I was a “kid.” Songs will happen in their time. Summer is for skinny-dipping and kite fighting…and
My neighbor Paul is also burning the candle at both ends tonight. He’s just come in carrying a plate of ice cold watermelon. He’s been cutting up steel piping for what will be the new framework of a bed and instrument storage in the new van. I’m fixing everything up in true gypsy fashion for a new season of touring that will happen when the new album is done. I’m still fleshing that album out. In the meantime, I’m pulling out the box of tools; the skil saw and the drill that rules…. I love fir-good-oneside-plywood.
Go drink some nice cold something rather, and I’ll check in again later…
Peace to you—Miranda