I discovered The National back in 2011, when we visited Louw’s mom in Canada. We took a road trip down to Seattle and spent hours browsing albums in the record stores of my dreams. We found a whole bunch of new artists that set the scene for our wending journey through the Rockies, and beyond. The National is one that never got old, and it will remind me of snowy landscapes forever.
Louw and I met and fell in love in 2006, and we’ve been having adventures ever since. For the last few years we’ve been more focused on growing humans than shaking it up, so we’re well overdue for the next big exploration.
But, back to The National. Boxer was our soundtrack to discovering the humbling splendor that is moonlight on snow, and mountain passes that put you on the edge of the world. We loved it all so hard we knew we wanted it for keeps. So Canada joined our relationship (not sure if she’s my sister-wife, or his brother-husband), and we’ve been trying to make it official ever since. Long story short: it finally is, and now we have the papers to prove it. Oh, Canada is due to carry us over the thresh-hold in 42 days and 14 hours.
*breathes into paper bag*
Thing is, The National isn’t cutting it anymore. As I type, the deep timbre isn’t helping my anxiety. I know that if I face forward, looking at my screen, it’s all good. BUT, if I turn around and see the stack of hungry packing crates and suitcases behind me, panic bares its teeth. How do you audit life’s accumulation?
*pause for sip of wine*
In place of a decent answer, I’ll listen to Kurt Vile and finish this post. My current mood requires imperfect melodies and lots of hair.
The kiddos are in bed, no doubt dreaming up astonishing new places to poop. I’ll hit those suitcases soon. We leave for Jo’burg in two weeks, so I can’t procrastinate anymore. Also, our washing machine broke today.
*turns around in swivel chair*
You get the idea.