Mixed

Coming home late last night, listening to the random selections from my digital audio player...

I can't and won't call it an ipod because it simply isn't.

...the songs it chose for my hour-plus drive were superb. I could scream them at the top of my lungs if I wanted to (i did). If my windows were open (drops of water swirling to the height of my cheekbones), far too few people could ever hear it in that dark stretch between big town and bigger city. Rufus Wainwright, Sublime, Belle and Sebastian, A Tribe Called Quest, the list went on and everything was perfect in it's cadence and singular motion to my listening ears.

I thought about things, but didn't have to dwell on them.

The rain came and went and came and went again.

This morning I woke up to a light drizzle, wet green grass and scattered sounds of a neighborhood already awake for a few hours.

The painting wants attention (i will and there is still another one). The writing needs attention (i have pictures to do the talking for me because it will fail). The construction of a personae should be attended to (if you can;t be bigger than you are will you stand a chance). The streams of unrequited photos push themselves to the front of the line as they often do (it's so much more comfortable to stay here inside and tell yourself you are creating). I need the attention of my friends and the circle of their inner circles (did that make sense to me or do I know that this is even true). I want the attention of this person who wants to meet me and I don't yet know their name (why is that). There is a solid chance for everything to be accomplished with some effort.

I wonder what I could do if I could not create.