I've been having interesting conversations about god, sex, homosexuality, language and music lately. It's nice, but it's not lending itself well to expression. It just doesn't want to be let out except in some temporary forum. I can't get these things to sustain themselves....I can't get these ideas home from the car. I can't transfer them from head to fingers and I need to pause a moment to listen to South Texas Girl.
At least someone can write a song. Thanks Lyle.
I'm a little scared that the garbage will swallow us up in this town. I'm scared of all these sweaty bodies and our stuff and where it all goes. I guess we'll find a place, we always do, but there's some worry swimming underneath and occasionally surfacing in awareness that one day my house will fill with my waste and then I'll walk outside and that world will be nothing but coffee grounds and cigarette butts and paper towels and receipts.
But still I use disposable razors. Nice, eh? I'm looking around at my clutter and wondering what I need and what I'm only nervous to throw out.
I lost stuff, you know. Stuff. I guess I do without, but there's a part of me-for all my collecting-that can live without anything. I'm not as upset about some of the stuff that found a new place as I should be, but I feel like I should miss them. Here's the last little goodbye.
Bye, stuff. Wonder where you went. I loved you while I could and the best I knew how.
But back to the conversations that remind me of being 23 and being crazy about some half magic, pretty thing in some bar. I could never get them home, either. Turns out that I don't mind. Maybe I'm moving too fast with life and not sittin still long enough. It might be the volume or the speed. These superlatives don't sit still long enough to be held close.
I know I'm not making much sense. I'm really very cool with that. This is a comforting click on a keyboard. This is a refreshing disease in my head. You'll get it or you'll cock your head to one side and look at me like the dogs do when I go past their 20 word vocabulary. I might just need sleep.
I won't worry when the words flow like this, half connotation and half nonsense, I will when they won't gather into rhyme and a line you can take home.
I never worry when the pop bottles and the razors find a new place to rest, but when the songs stay out all night, I worry.