I've been updating my music files lately to prep for what may soon be the beginning of much time spent at home feeling like shite. I downloaded the entire B-52's discography and have spent the last few hours reliving the pre-bar days of my yute, obsessing over that strange band from Athens, GA, building playlists and driving around Victoria in various beat-up cars.
There's one song on a later album that Cindy Wilson belts out, "Girl from Ipanema Goes to Greenland," and it's predictably goofy, but also melancholy. I remember there being something about that song that's connected with the untimely death of Cindy's brother Ricky. Whatever it is, and was, it smacked me in the heart at the time, even at 14 years old and relatively sheltered from untimely deaths, and I took one of the lyrics from it and kept it as my mantra from then on: wherever you go, there you are.
Pete and I went to Sooke Harbour House this weekend to regroup, conduct full conversations with each other and generally escape from the supremely shitty time that was last week before we had to deal with another shitty week of scans and further test results. It was unbelievably lovely. I didn't forget about everything, but I got to remember that life could be full and fun and in the moment and ultimately manageable.