As the sun starts to peek out from behind the unusually grey February clouds, a young woman’s mind turns to Festival Season: where the flower crowns fund Etsy shops for the winter months, and CamelBak sales are at their urban retail peak. Aside from the one vacation day a year I ration for the glory of overpriced beer and extortive merchandising, my favorite festivals mean a weekend sighting of the Bay Brigadoon: my Bestie, BFF, Biffles, the Only Long Distance Relationship I Believe In, the notorious Mr. Zen. Z and I became friends only after I annoyed the hell out of him for four years, but it was 6th grade and I was in love with him so he forgave me for it. When High School hit I developed a solid sense of General Anger and he was there to remind me to give less fucks, if any at all, and we’ve been friends ever since. He built a computer in High School, knows more about software engineering and lucid dreaming than anyone I’ve ever met, and will probably only grow smarter, which both fills me with pride and a sort of creeping terror because I’m gonna have to keep up with all that. In the meantime he wears goggles to my bandana just for fun, and backs me up when people make fun of my pants. We’re almost definitely getting married, but we’ve got a lot of music to get through first.
…we die a little death inside
If I could change the sprawling heavens’ face
or lend a thread unto the fated three,
I’d weave new stars into the night’s embrace,
and happ’ly knit together thee and me.
If I could rend this ever turning sphere,
collapse it like a ship within a jar,
I’d build a bridge between our “there” and “here”,
and be forever near to where you are.
How lucky is the newborn morning sky
to be within your eyes when you awake-
how lucky too the spreading stars on high
to hear your prayer, as prayers’ effect you take.
For though in these same skies, the same stars rule
they are not mine- ‘tis I that am their fool.