Go, you restless souls, you're gonna find it

Easter at my grandmother's house was a little sad. It'll probably be the last holiday we spend with her. She is not doing well and will probably never get better. Her failing health was the elephant in the room and we all did our best to have a good time, but it was difficult. The writing is on the wall and my family needs to ready ourselves for her passing.
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Went to a great party in Brighton last night. Actually, it would be more appropriate to call it a show, because, in essence, that's what it was. Everyone, about twenty of us, assembled in the basement to listen to some music. It was a cozy atmosphere, replete with cushions of the floor and mood lighting. There was plenty of beer and wine for everyone, as well as some bread and hummus. I stuck with the beer.

First to perform was a cellist named Garth Stevenson. It was a moving set--sometimes soft, sometimes muscular, always engaging. One piece, though gentler, reminded me of the music during the masked ceremony in Eyes Wide Shut. His use of electronics often changed the sound of his instrument so drastically, you'd never guess it was a cello if you didn't see it with your own eyes.

Next up was John Shannon, a very quiet and frail individual whose singing and guitar playing matched his demeanor. He reminded me of Damien Rice a bit, but without the dramatics. His songs were delicate and perfectly suited for the mellow environment. A woman named Caroline sang pretty back ups on some of the songs. My only criticism was his Casteneda-like musings between songs ("I sat Indian style in the desert for four days on a vision quest and when I returned from my spiritual journey, a butterfly landed on my shoulder and he stayed there for fifteen minutes. And then I met Caroline a few months later and she had a butterfly tattoo. I knew we were destined to create music together") and the fact that most of his songs were indistinguishable from one another. Minor criticisms, these--the performance was transcendent.

I lucked out and managed to sit next to, at least in my estimation, the finest looking woman in the room. She reminded me a bit of someone I've been known to write about from time to time. We had a nice conversation in between sets and at the end she disappeared into the night.Women hover in and out of my life like wraiths.
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Yesterday, I had to go on a delivery with Alex, one of my new drivers. He's a good kid, soft spoken and polite, but I've noticed on more than one occasion that he'd benefit from a shower and some deodorant. Riding in the truck with him, I was assaulted with his b.o. The closest thing I can compare it to is the smell of sharp cheddar cheese left out in the sun too long on a sweltering August day. I longed for something to plug up my nostrils with.

Throughout the day, I continued to smell his b.o., even though he was hardly in my presence. I sniffed hard on my shirt sleeve to see if his stench had been absorbed by my clothes. The results were inconclusive. What was happening seemed to be the olfactory equivalent to phantom limb syndrome. Or, and this notion disturbed me, I was the one with the b.o. That would have sucked, but it was a possibility.

I thought back to what I'd eaten recently that could have caused the odor. Out of everything, the dill hummus was the likely suspect. But was it playing havoc on my pores? I didn't know; the only thing I was sure of was I wanted this smell, however it attached itself to my being, to beg off.

On the way home from the party last night, I explained to Spira and her friend Sarah the b.o. situation---I could still detect its presence, though it was faint---and asked them if they could smell it. They told me they couldn't. I was relieved, to be sure, but I was starting to get frustrated with this phantom cheese smell. Fortunately, I awoke this morning and the odor had left, hopefully never to return. Oh, and I decided it was that smelly prick Alex who infected me. No way did I smell that bad.