so colin meloy called me last night.

in my dream, anyway. I was on a nubby couch in a wood paneled room. the phone rang, dim yellow lamp and some tv light. like the rec room at your parents' house. and it was colin, and he was like, do you remember me? and I was like, are you kidding? do you remember me? I sat on the side of the stage writing about you. and we talked for a while, and my father was there. he saw that I was on the phone and waved goodnight and went into the closet smiling. and I went back to talking and telling a story but colin had fallen asleep, and after a few attempts to wake him (while I thought to myself, he probably hung up on me and this is all a joke anyways) he came back with a sleepy, "no, I'm here, I'm here" and I said "fibber, you were sleeping!" it was so vivid. I awoke to snapshots of the iron horse show in my mind, the way the silver threads ran through his shirt, mingling and mixing with the article and photo from spin that I ripped out and tacked up on my wall. with strains of and you my soiled teenage girlfriend... why do you ruffle like a lioness humming in my ears. imaginary snapshots of being close enough to take off his glasses and look into his eyes, darting back and forth from one to the other, wanting to see all of it at once.

hi. um, I still want to move to portland.