Fuck, It’s Balmy–


I’ve 36 minutes and even that makes me feel a little bit bad. A little bit like I should be working harder, doing more, despite the fact I actually do a lot. I’ve pinched a nerve in my left index finger playing my guitar tonight. It feels good. A sweet pain. All guitarists love that pain. A scar. A sign post. An indicator of hard you’ve pressed. How far you’ve come. My neighbor feels bad for there not being enough hours left in the day to paint, to draw, to mix, to dance– I feel the same a lot of the time about writing. About music. About songs. Where does the time go? How much time does it really take? Really? Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. I know. But the clothes remain unhung, making a big mess of my sofa. There are dishes in the sink. The plants need to be watered. I’ve not restrung my guitar since February. I play it– standing up– without a strap. The advantage of a hot climate I suppose. The wood sticks to my tummy as I strum… My wrists work harder. My fingers press long and hard. Sharp and full. I love to sing. The gay guy at work makes a point of announcing to a few that I have marvellous breasts. I glare at him, thinking all number of things. Imaginations. Fantasies. Always armed and ready for the onslaught. The preemptive strike. The upper hand. I could’ve said anything. But I chose to sit where I sat today– subconsciously– for one very simple little reason. I like to sing. My supervisor also likes to sing. He’s a human iPod. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. I joke about affixing some wires to his head and sourcing his mindmouse. Locating the root of said shuffle. Where do all the songs come from? Where do they hide when you’re not remembering them? What happens to them? One by one by one he coughs them up. A line here, a verse there– He doesn’t even know the artist most of the time. I pretend to dazzle him with various trivia. He’s a very cool cat. Really. I enjoy the music is my point. The tunes. The giggles. We laugh a lot. And that comment, you know, about my boobs– that made me feel ridiculous and hideous in equal measure– it doesn’t matter. There are looks exchanged and loads of spaces between the words, silences between the tunes and cadence in the space between cats. Betwixt sentences. And it’s nice. It’s nice to know, you know? That someone finds you just as refreshing as you do they. It’s light. It’s enlightenment. To become lighter, Leonard says, that’s enlightenment, to become lighter–

x.

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