Robert Hough: THINGS I LIKE

 

ROBERT HOUGH

 

Susie, Sally, Ella, hairy-nosed wombats, illuminated highway signs, Mark Rothko, capers, tigers, Bill Evans, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Guanajuato, Trinidad de Cuba,  Miles Davis, Soma FM,  Patti Smith, Don Cherry (ie Neneh’s father), El Asador on Bloor Street, trances, Ricky Gervaise, Kate Winslet, Fela, Antibalas, Wes and P.T. Anderson, Scorcese prior to Gangs of New York, Spain, yoga, those Alfa Romeo sedans that they drove in Italian movies from the ‘60s, Gigondas, silence, sea lions, Jim White, Nicoise olives, crazy old John Giorno, capybara rodents, ball lightening, Freud, John Lydon, afro-jazz, Sly & Robbie, John Coltrane, Monet in his Garden, sea horses, eel sushi, French food, matar paneer, poor ol’ Jerry may his soul rest in peace, meetings of the Wheatsheaf Literary Society, Wilco, excessive sleep, squash, fish cakes, not caring, running in the fall, Aztec ruins, milkshakes, tulips, zines, Randy Weston, the call to prayer, mission churches, Global Rhythms on CIUT-FM, my editor, my agent, the theory of relativity, really sharp kitchen knives, Alan Ball, limestone houses, canals, ginseng-based stimulants, bocarones, cooking risotto, buttes, acupuncture, ghosts, assorted slaws, circus people, sailors, Russians, gas stoves, the word “pulpy”, the word “chum”, the possibility that one day I will start a novel with the sentence “the chum was good and pulpy that morning,” dumpling-faced Chinese grandmothers, scrunchy-faced dogs, calm people, Cezanne, Picasso, Bill Laswell, corn tortillas, Laurel and Hardy, wind turbines, manatees, Garry Kasparov, good tequila, walking to places, my fall jacket, Mexican cinema, ping-pong, and, last but not least, those little jars anchovies come in …

© Robert Hough 2015