summer residue

Summer rolled down the stairs and evaporated into thin air. Effervescence, thy essence escapes me! ...unlike drunken fruit flies. This summer, besides delving into radio programming, festival hopping, horizontally savoring parks, I've become a master of drowning fruit flies in leftover wine. Tomek had taught me the trick back in the day, with vinegar in a glass, covered by poked plastic wrap. Fruit flies in Montreal are fancier than those in Toronto, so beaujolais and not rice vinegar. I gather they also like lager.

Between heat waves, humidity, occasional thunderstorms, joy, pain, a series of visitors, dozens of bagels, broken promises, midnight graffiti'n'stenciling and Gregorian chants...between newcomers in my life, a few exits, a bunch of 'something in the air's, a swim in a lake in the dark as lightening cracked the skies...somewhere in the middle, over the top and underneath I lost track. Losing track, as it were, is a guilty pleasure of mine, a leitmotif. Equal parts drifting and idling and a pinch of...ideally sea salt.

Summer, last I heard of the wicked cherub, was gulping down some precious aged tequila at the doorsteps of the Heir of Ossington, watching girls walk clumsily in their high heels, bumming cigarettes from hipsters, ordinary folk, busboys from the Vietnamese restaurant and eating half defrosted microwaved stuffed peppers, equal parts steaming hot and frikkin' cold.