We woke up at three. We’ve abandoned our attempts to conquer jetlag and are instead pleased at how quickly we will adjust to ‘merican time. Something happened for three hours, I don’t know, I don’t remember that far in the past. I put on pants at some point, hopefully. I remember eating curry but I also remember eating cereal. Were they both today? Maybe.
WE ARE IN A TIDAL WAVE SPITTOON, NO, MONSOON, NO what is that thing, a funnel cloud. A spiral staircase. A bendy straw. We are in a never ending bendy straw of temporal confusion. Time has lost all meaning. I think of sunset as late morning.
It has been pointed out to me that I may mean whirlpool. A whirlpool of temporal confusion. Or possibly a cyclone. Or a word that I made up in my head one time and decided everyone else had to acknowledge and then forgot about.
Point is, eventually, we managed to pry ourselves out of the comforting womb of this apartment. We poured lattes into our mouth holes. We went to the one busking street. It is the unofficially official busking street in Vilnius. He went down into an underground flea market shop (actually underground, and full of gas masks and old snapshots and Soviet tchotchkes) to look at cufflinks and I crouched over our heap of instruments and looked at the people looking at me. A very small very old lady with spacious teeth saw me and the instruments and got so excited and happy, like a young kid does, without consideration of how it looks. I was excited with her until she passed out of view and I stopped being able to feel her feelings. I drank my coffee and was neutral without being sullen, which is a good trick for me.
He came up, cufflinkless, having FAILED UTTERLY to ask the proprietor if we could play on his doorstep. So I went down and cooed and fluttered (very badly, it only worked because he was on his cellphone and not paying attention) and he said it was fine if we played.
Western Swing and early jazz is what we have right now. I am on tenor banjo, as my faithful readers will know, and he’s on fiddle or clarinet. I haven’t busked in months and was shaky, coffeeified and nervous. But they have so few street musicians that they may not be in a position to judge and were delighted. A roundy man, shorter than me, stopped right in front of me and winked. I winked back at him and he giggled. A group of German geographers (ahahahaha, real life consonance!) sat down at the cafe across from us so they could hear us. We now have their email and are going to try to find someone to give one of them accordion lessons. A middle aged couple of unspecified European-ness slow danced next to us. It went well.
We walked home via a series of bars. I destroyed him utterly at foosball and was permitted to bloviate on the topic of young adult fiction (separate and distinct events, it is just that I am cheap with my punctuation.)
We then, there being no all night snack availability in Vilnius, deep fried potatoes in coconut oil. And a mushroom, because when you are deep frying, you might as well live like you may never have a chance to deep fry again.
I don’t think I have any wise parting words for you today. *smiles sappily into the camera* And remember, when life gets you down, when things seem grey and cloudy, when the current of your dreams has developed into a riptide of death and nightmare and featureless desert, in the ocean, ocean desert, ah um, ocean with no sea life in it I guess, remember. Remember that you can sit on the couch and put your toes in sour cream. It feels kind of cool and you feel terrible, so you might as well, right? And then, later, when you feel better, when you have used sour cream to get you through that difficult time, you will have unlocked the power of realising that you can put your toes in sour cream, a socially suspect activity. And then you will understand that everything is a construct that can be broken down given sufficient desperation and that if what you really want to do is go live on a pontoon and knit hats, then you can.