The entire world is so full of beautiful things.  Today I renewed my car tags and wrote a check because there wasn’t enough to cover it in my checking account, and when I got into my car to drive home, it wouldn’t start.  It means something that I called my dad and he came out immediately, roll started it and took it back home with him to look at, even though he already had stuff to do today.

Yesterday on my way home I had one of those “I’m alive!” moments and went to the Disc Exchange just to see if they had any Innocence Mission on vinyl (the only thing I have to play music on in my room is a laptop with lousy speakers and a record player), and came out with Iron & Wine’s Our Endless Numbered Days and the Fleet Foxes album with the Bruegel painting on the cover.  $30.  It was insane, and I knew it, but I did it anyway.  And now I’m listening to the vast and stony and warm layers of all of these Fleet Foxes songs, all of them, and trying to hold ideas of money and enoughness and notenoughness in one hand, and the strange beauty of the world in the other.

Sometimes even the songs that sound like canyons and huge underground lakes make a room around you, a small room.  This is how these songs are, to me.  The window is open just enough to let in the smell of earth, some long needles of sunlight, and the sonic disturbances of life.  You get the feeling that these are all you need, all you need for the rest of your life is this album and this chair, and for that door to be closed.

Balance, the search for.  Which encyclopedia?  Because I needed so much to go camping this weekend, and now I don’t have money for gas, or a car.  The list of things to take with me lies long in the pages of my journal, so happy and bulleted and dreamed-over (this is what I do at work).  It’s gonna break my heart to tell it that I’m not going.