A shot of the rear entrance of Social, a restaurant I’ve only dined in once, but have passed by, wishing I was inside, many times. I like how the mood in the shot is warm, against the implied cold from the Christmas lights. One could sit here at any time of year and soak up the serenity, where a song by Sigur Rós (at night, when it’s comfortably crowded) is as relevant as a song by Edith Piaff (particularly in the fall, when the skies are grey) is as relevant as a song by Iron And Wine (during the early days of summer, when it’s still cool in the evening).

I swear I’m missing some underwear.

For the longest time, I had enough boxers to get me through the week at least, but now I find myself having to do laundry before Saturday comes around. I can’t imagine anyone actually taking them, although every time I lose an article of clothing, I always suspect the most recent ex-girlfriend first. This isn’t for any specific reason (in fact, I’m pretty sure none of them have ever actually taken anything), and is probably just a paranoia cultivated through group hug confessions.

That, and knowing how important smell can be to someone. Ashley, in particular, used to take my undershirts on a regular basis. She’d tell me to wear them for days (good thing Asian people don’t sweat), and we’d have a rotation thing going on where I’d give her a new (used) shirt when I couldn’t see her for a while. She told me that she’d fall asleep clutching them, although the smell would never last longer than a week.

Michele was different. She didn’t have any natural scent, and told me that my shirts would never stop smelling like me. I suspect that she had a much sharper olfactory sense.

Sam I could smell through the pages of a book she once gave me: a copy of Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes. She picked it up at a book sale, and read it in one day. By the end she was crying, and thought I would enjoy it. Every time I turned the page, it was like she was sitting in front of me again, coffee smell on her breath.

Louise was different still. She had a great scent that was a little sweet, under the Cool Water by Davidoff she would frequently wear. She didn’t seem to care for my natural body smell as much as the artificial “male” scents, such as the Gillette series of products. Jacky once told me that she was using a stick of the same sport antiperspirant that her ex used because it reminded her of him. When I actually saw the stick, even already knowing that it was a stick of “guy antiperspirant”, I was still surprised at how male oriented the marketing was, with high contrast fluorescent stripes and bold fonts. It looked a little odd when she put it on, holding the stick with her dainty hands.

I find that most girls are like this; they prefer the manufactured smells of an aftershave, body wash, or even deodorant. Instead, Ashley taught me to appreciate an eau de natural. I remember walking up to her house, after not seeing her for a month, and being able to smell her from outside the door. I would miss her even more just standing there, almost as if this made her ethereal presence tangible. Ever since, I’ve believed that the scents we produce are more important than the ones we put on. They’re unique to one person, and never go away.

Unlike my underwear.

I was listening to a jungle remix of The Perfect Drug by Nine Inch Nails, when I realized that jungle artists can carry phrases with their beats instead of the samples. Since most of the sound in drum and bass comes from the way the DJ plays with an alternating kick drum/snare breakbeat, the (more discernible) emphasis shifts to the style of the beat rather than the singer or melody. By syncopating the breakbeat for a few bars in a row, the final bar can have no syncopation and give closure to the phrase. Genius.

Last morning, the sky was a swirl of ash and dusty pink. The air was still, the breeze was warm, and everything felt different. It was as if we lived in a snowglobe wrapped in tie-dyed tissue paper, travelling on our way to work, watching the early morning sunlight come up with the waning of the winter days. The rays would pierce the clouds like a child passing a flashlight through the thin spots in his blanket.

I can only hope for the same today.

I used to seethe, stew, and marinate. If I was in a bad mood, I wanted to stay in a bad mood because, somehow, I would want to make it worth it. I figure that if something is bad enough to make me sour, I shouldn’t be easily taken out of that frame of mind. It’s the same with forgiveness. I’m slow to anger, but once I’m there, I’m extremely slow to forgive, for the exact same reason.

For years, I would listen to music to help me wallow in these emotions. It would cradle me, fuel me until the emotion burned out. Listening this way, with a surge of sentiment, would let me feel the notes, and I would savour every second, minute, and eventual hour of it.

Lately, though, I hear music differently. It inspires me. It moves me. It helps me out of an emotion, instead of into one. And it feels like this change is a reflection of how much my life is changing now, how I’m beginning to see the entire world around me in such a profoundly different way.

As if everything that’s past is prologue to this.