Strange days.

You know, days that make you wonder-
what is UP with the world?

Day one:  Democracy.

Wake up discombobulated, dreams like real-life, uncanny feeling I've been through lucid-dream torture. Gradually.
Lots of coffee

The one event excited for in the day - preview of a play I want to see, badly-- cancelled-- no big deal

All the better to get an earlier start to an orientation-of-sorts meeting

on arrival the head of the company says:

“None of us need to worry about the law. 
As long as you don’t break it, you don’t have to think about the law at all!”

Day Two:  Elementary Revisited.

Insomnia win.
My mind, perhaps intrinsically scared of the 5 AM dream anthology
which stands in the corner lurking, rebels.

Daytime, not terrible, but lack of sleep obvious.
Evening, I go to a wonderful meeting with fun, interesting people.

Walking out, happy, elated.

Planning to catch the bus home, it's cold outside, and I dive into the convenience store for a second and flip through a magazine.

I hear someone yelling,
no YELLING, at me.

"You gonna to buy that?'

This takes a while to register,
as I usually associate yelling with a fire or an emergency.

Livid, I end up having an argument with the guy (who's probably twenty years younger than me but thinks I'm younger than he is, maybe?) working behind the counter.

And I hate arguing with a passion.

Because of my past, or maybe because of being in situations living abroad where discrimination is more apparent than it is in the US,
I stand up for myself when I feel my rights are being violated.

For better or worse.

 I dislike any sort of hard feelings, but I also dislike people who don't think past their nose.

Most of all I dislike my own angry self.

On the way home, I see a friendly face on the bus.
A saving grace, kindred spirit,
a reminder.
Hope, gentleness, an understanding of the human condition.
This is something we all know well.
Not something learned.

808

What I really want to know is what it means to be a writer. 

I mean, how the pros do it, hour by hour, no cease to exist button.

Looking out the window, the shape of a brachiosaurus - a shadow in the trees- I took a picture. Taking pictures is so much easier when it's light outside. A time when I'm usually not awake.

I haven't spoken to Seurat in about a month now. Ironic, Seurat knows more about me than anyone else. Too bad he can't make sense of anything. 

The shape of the dinosaur morphing into one of those creatures that looks like they have a rectangle on their head. Leaves on the trees undulated knowingly. 

Bubbles bubbles from the deep.

Something moves; a scent of past swing-dancing parties. Twirling around, placated, I would feel myself in the air flying, especially with people who knew how to lead. Losing myself, I never felt dizzy, just exhilarated, like I was doing exactly what I should be doing in that moment. 

Through dance I could be my true self and with a dance partner by my side, I never felt alone.

whoa!

On a ferry around the San Juan islands, below deck.

on boats and things

a friend of mine owns a boat and concurrently is converting another boat 

(a huge steamboat from the 1940's) into a recording space/ radio station.

yo

beauty is universal

across soundwaves

or telephone wires

re ^ so ^ nate

unusual

I get bored at times.

Don't we all? 

The writer Haruki Murakami's telling quote: 

"I never get bored,"

makes me think 

is ennui

opposite of 
action?

In my own life, in-action has never been a good thing. 

especially on a day when I feel alright, nothing is 'wrong'-

By 'wrong,' I mean not getting enough sleep, for example, or the feeling you have after having a terrible fight with a friend
- no- 
on a regular day  

this dull feeling that nothing you do matters to anyone

the b-word creeps in

a fine mist, 
tar-black night

Maybe it has something to do with being indecisive- seriously, I'm the worst when it comes to mundane decisions- well, besides an old college friend of mine (a male doppelganger perhaps) Christopher. 

In college, I recall driving around for hours on end, destinationless, 

occasionally asking one another, 'What to do?', all the while giggling at the absurdity of the question itself. 

A or B? 

Sometimes what I want is someone telling me what my next move should be, my personal work Irish deadline setter. 

Dance helps-- dancing around with reckless abandon, usually alone in my apartment. And it makes sense that when the lines are blurred in my mind, that the thing which is the most fulfilling, regardless of its worth, is always 

the right thing to do.

void

“It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out of the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could Laika possibly be looking at?”

-Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart