I only really share things like this with a (very) few people. These days I don't get around to writing short stories and poetry and stuff as much as I used to. But when I come across old things I've written I remember I used to write, not just to figure things out but just to play around. It makes me remember how much fun it is to play with words.
And play in my own world.
My inner life/world may be hypothetical and fantastical but it's a place where it's always dusk, dawn or the blue hour. There is always coffee and tea and cereal. A place where my sweaters are big and my beverage temperature is always just right. A place with a cozy chair and a big, huge window looking out on a wheat field or a green forest or lake. And there is a good book and/or close friend next to me.
(It's also a world in which I am a badass Cellist. And a world where I can dance really well and my archery skills match those of Legolas.
And I'm always barefoot. )
(For some reason I don't like to wear shoes in my day dreams.)
(That might be the (Tolkien) Elvish influence in my life manifesting itself.)
And a place where I have many animal companions. (I'm beginning to think I might be Radagast.)
And at least one of my animal companion happens to be a Dire wolf.
Or Dire Pit-bull.
I'm not picky.
All in all it's a pretty swell place to vacation.
I'm just sayin'.
Sometimes I forget how essential deliberately spending time being creative is for my well-being.
And also Blues.
I dig that shit.
I need more of it in my life.
I can't say I'm not shy about posting this piece.
Because I am.
But I guess a really great thing about being really, really tired is that it gives me a chance to make peace with my life and myself.
And it makes me numb enough to post things like this because what's the use in worrying about it?
So I guess I'll consider this an exercise in breaking my own rules.
I've never really liked rules anyway.
Here Lies Mr. Oliver (Joe “King” Oliver)Champagne bubbles like sputtering coals and the chinking high pitched ding of crystal cups and laughing words drip from the ceiling and shatter on his shoulders. He walks outside. Lines hang like cobwebs on his face. Steam is rising from a grate on the ground. The lamp light spreads out – a halo. So he slips away.Cotton wood seeds fall on the crackling paper under his hot wooden hand, his pen – striking the flint. His words sizzle and pop. With a note the trees begin to smoke.There is a cemetery across town. He seeps through the gate and sees the silver stones shine with burnt letters. He sees that old statue with Her arm resting under her chin. He walks around her and tells his little story. Then he slips away.It is thick like the big red trees. It whispers –smoke rings that drift. It hangs like mussels on a ship. And always dripping away under ground. Sharp as the Liberty Crown. Shifting like the fickle clouds.He laughs. His breath is damp. So it clumps up. And slips away.
Music (of the "current" sort) that I've been swimming in lately: