Wednesday, August 18, 2010


When I listen to the Postal Service it takes me back a few years to my earliest twenties. Back to an October spent climbing mountains, riding horses and touching a waterfall that came straight out of the heavens. To exhausting my lips and lungs. To the smell of a bonfire and the warmth of waking up on the ground in the mountains, icicles in my hair, stuffed into a sleeping bag with another body. To trying to figure out who I was with all the wide-eyed inexperience of someone who'd spent her coming-of-age years alone on Mars. To trying desperately to hold on to ideas I couldn't grasp. To the smell of sweat and pastures and cold, thin air. It takes me back to the life of Sundance and midwest filmmaking and curly-haired babies that I was sure I wanted--those things that make me chuckle and shake my head from my Big Grownup Chair. Every note is fogged up windows and belly aches, every bleep is one of the thousand tiny light bulbs I looked down on from "this is the place." I don't miss it but it makes me smile.