And cards. We would play cards too, like retirees killing time.
Now I'm playing one of those real-life games that is impossible to win and yet impossible to throw a tantrum, flip the board in the air and storm home.
Waiting.
The past few days I've stayed shuttered in the house with occasional excursions to teach some piano. It's cold; I've been under the weather; there's nothing to force me out into the world.
And while I've gotten a lot done at home—making some phat beats and hip-happening grooves—there's always the gmail inbox twinkling at me in the distance, begging me to check for anything important.
Whether it's a new piano student, a romantic interest, a potential performance gig, or just a new Facebook friend, the compounding of unrequited communication is an experiment in anti-matter containment, each new void expanding the black hole below.
And yet I can't stop. I keep throwing boomerangs off the cliff never to be seen again. Only some do I get to see washed up on the shore, their potential energy wasted, overcome by gravity and the infinite mist.
