• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions

Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Complete Things

Author's Note:

Maybe it's the fact that I can sleep again.

Maybe it's the showers I've been taking... this crispness... this cleanliness...

...but I suddenly feel like I can do this again.

Like I can do anything again.

Life, I suppose, is a seaside tide that ebbs and flows.

Sometimes the waters lap up against the fetlocks, warming, tickling.

At other times, it's a drought... long spells of waiting for nothing.

At some point... some point indeed...

...the pattern will end.

... ... but that is not this day.

... ... ...that is not this night.

I sit before the music sheets. I stand before the instrument panel. I walk these Carolineigh streets.

There is no week, no month, no time frame to the unfolding of events. Just regular trips to Dr. Terra and the ritualistic opening of a Dr. Pony bottle. I almost fail to notice that the latter is happening less and less frequently. You know you're making progress on a project when you even forsake taking restroom breaks.

The twelve tracks are completing themselves. Everything turns from red to yellow to green. I feel like my head is filled with the scent of fresh plastic factory goodness. This is a labor of love, built by my own hooves, and yet there's something so pristine... so factory fresh about it.

I wonder why I never noticed it before. I wonder why I anguished over it before.

DJ Capricorn can barely keep track... can scarcely see me on the visual spectrum. I'm blurring about, hopping from instrument to instrument, grabbing samples from here and clips from there. At some point, a track finds itself in need of the most obtuse thing—a sample of maracas. We're too lazy to go out and buy a professional set of sound clips, so I get Capricorn to fill a pickle jar with gravel and she shakes it before the mic. It works. I take it and I go soaring. It's so beautifully unprofessional that it works.

This is a natural album. A home-brewed album. The digital orgasmitronica sticks to the background. Cyan Sings takes up the foreground. She sticks to the mic and she does not peel off.

This is for me. This is for her.

And as everything comes to a delightful, dreamy close, I realize precisely why I am able to finish this...

...and that's because it's for Tavi.

Wherever she is.

Whatever pit she may be stuck in.

This is my hoof, outstretched to pull her out.

As I've also been pulled out.

It's too crazy to work, which is why it must.

But first thing's first... before I even listen to this beautiful mess...

...before I put my seal of quality on it and everything...

... ...I must fine tune the most delicate instrument of all.

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