My Hands are Shaking

I want to sing like Sondre Lerche.  Or at the very least speak the way his voice sounds.  Wishful thinking, which is one way to live life I guess, thinking wistfully, always wishing if you like.  But be careful.  Too much thinking and wishing gets you nowhere.

Do.  Be.  Try to become.  Whatever it is, however that may be.

And I'm not saying you should, but I do with reciprocity.  I treat others how I'd like to be treated.  Of course, sure.  At first.  It grows with realization though.  I treat people how they treat me.  I mirror, I mime with calculation and tone and temperament.

It's nice.  It's nice to be nice, but there's a little dickish asshole in all of us, and living like this let's me get that out, keeps the ebb and flow, balances the tide and the mind.  It feels good to be a prick sometimes, especially when you're talking to one.

That's why I relish a horn being honked my way.  Because I never honk.  Hardly ever.  But I always honk back, and it makes my day.

Quote of the Day: For Dancing

From Her

"So what the hell happened."

"I don't know."

Eyes avoid each other, which is weird and sad and strange when you're sitting face to face.

"I don't know. I mean... You ever have the feeling that you need someone?"

Nothing.

"Well I needed someone."

"Someone to fuck, you mean."

"Ha, hmm..." And my eyes find hers for once, or her eyes find mine, and I think to myself, no, not even.  No, not specifically, it's not that. It's something else.  "Someone to tell me I'm here," I say. "Because every so often, almost always now, I feel like I'm about to disappear."  Over a cliff through the railing, out to sea; head-on, headlong into black.  Flint black.  Forever night. "It's ok though."

Thanks, Spike Jones

IN - N - OUT

Consciousness is a funny thing.  We all know what it is, consciousness, or rather we all recognize the word when we hear it for the most part.  We attach some vague definition to it like being awake, but what is it?  What is it really.  The difference between sleeping and waking?  Is that it?  The difference between sleeping and living.

I'm somewhere in between right now,
Writing in and out of rhyme again.

Dead Poet's Society

Why do we read and write poetry?

Why do I read and write poetry?

Why do I read and write?

Why do I write?

Simple question.  It's good to start simple.  Broad strokes.  The details come later.  Simple strokes leave the rest up in the air, open to hope and desire, interpretation, and a soft breeze from the east.  Simple strokes can carry you out to sea, to that vast open of anything and everything.  Possibility.  Dreams.  The care-free.  They carry me the farthest.

Why do I write?

Simple question.  Money?  Ha, no.  I laugh, mais non, there's no money in it for me.  Money is in the details.  In the greed and the need for acceptance and accolation.  In the id and the ego.  In a whoring of mediocrity and middle ground.  In a straight-jacket passion.  Confined and structured and pre-determined.  That's where the money is, in a dollar-bill box.

So why do I write then.

Simple question.

I write for the feeling it gives me.  In my fingers.  It frees me.  Oh, me!  Oh, life!  Alive!  A line on and on and on.  It keeps me living if for no other reason than there are things I need to write that I haven't written yet.

(you know, like an Apple ad)

She's Not The One

And then I remembered,

standing there in her hair

in the middle of the night

street.

Year ago in my youth,

uncouth, naive, shortsighted,

I was.

Thought I did, 

that she was the one,

and only she was the sun 

in the sky of that year

No, it was weeks,

and it fell and it peaked,

and I prayed

just to kiss her once more.

Now in her lips,

by her hips,

now I slip,

and I laugh at all 

the heartbreak before.

In my youth.

French Toast

I never make French Toast anymore.  Pancakes either.  What is that?  What to call it... Laissez-faire?  Non.  Change.  That's what it is, change.

I miss the effortlessness with which I used to do things.  The freedom of ambition with which I used to carry myself before Bali.  Wold on the lamb.  Like a convertible in fourth-gear control, and command of my bristling life was under a firm reign hold.  And now this.  This floundering back at the nest.  This upsets me to the brim, I think.  Maybe I should start making French Toast again.