Crisp fresh air, like refilling my lungs to full capacity again and again. Balloons in my chest, residue of all black smoke shake around like ash in a can. Nice young (spoiled) girl on the airplane. She slept through her essay (still has an hour, good luck my dear). Her bobbing head at rhythm with the turbulence, but opposite, to prevent her from falling, although she bumped her head on my shoulder multiple times. We are trapped in this environment as such and if you don't simply accept your surroundings as they are, with all of the characters and identities intact, you will be powerless. (Strange feeling to be able to leave the blinds open and have no anxiety that someone might be looking in.) The silence is... (phone call interrupts train of thought but this last sentence is appropriate enough.)
Strange. In a moment of serenity. Compiling my feelings of the day. The morning, the flight, the evening, and the people, the enlisting bearded truck driver, the business major, the Arizona girls visiting Seattle for the first time, talking and talking, the stewardesses smashing my left elbow with the cart of drinks and peanuts. I'm writing and thinking warm or cool of these moments, this mind freeing bliss of creation, where time at the moment ends and I am recollecting. A statement of fact. I am not currently in a state of do-nothing but it is an approach. The buddhist, mind-collecting like tiny rivulets of water, or grains of sand, raked in a garden, smoking weed and recording music for a few scenes of a film. A car scene. Driving down, passing fields. (Perhaps competing with other musicians for the spot?) I am called and interrupted from calm and passive revelry. Letting the words happen rather than think about each one individually, like an essay. Give a fuck about conventions or rhetorical appeals, or grammar or punctuation, this very sentence has defiled many and the uncolorful use of language should send me to a young literary grave. But it is oh so liberating. (From this I am reminded of my outside world tasks of learning songs. Learning them and playing them next week. Then work on the voice. The fingers and the voice and the shades.)
A virus in my hands, a physical growth representing a natural nervousness, a healthy nervousness, blemishing skin all over. Blood and guts and heavy skin. Weigh down with sunlight. Soak up so much my shoes leave yellow footprints with smiles like the children's drawings of suns with glasses on around pools full of cool jello or soda or marshmellows. Use your imaginations kids. It will be beat out of you by a large and unholy world if you are so naive to stifle yourself.
Right now I felt it again. I miss my big dog, my little cat. I like my little dog but she doesn't seem the same when she is playing with sam or chasing harry, who hisses and bats at her, for her insolence. I wonder if she realizes that they are missing. (Beer consumption. Card games and a family night.) May I be so patronizing to acknowledge a parental plateau. They have begun to rise again. And of course I look up to them. My bed is made and incredibly inviting. No company to keep. Simple approximations of warmth and heroic love. Nonsense now of course but we are all so susceptible to such whims. My mind is everywhere and I feel like laying down and mulling over some notes, so I will. A phone call can't ruin a night (though I stopped for about a half hour to practice the parts. A healthy diversion I must say).
