It should be that warriors cry. True war is not logistics and formation.
It should be that the men of war cry. That during battle they see it as it is through blurry vision. Because only through the focus of tears can they see solely the blurred colors of flesh, the crimson of blood, the hue of bone, and the soft colors of sacred places within the body exposed.
I had always remember one time 4 years ago walking into Nordstrom with Derick and seeing a Piano player that had inspired me spiritually and musically. He said that he had been playing music since before I “was a twinkle in my parents eye”.
Those words had resonated for ever. The sheer romance. This old man played my favorite jazz standards.
Today Derick and I were across the street from Nordstrom and I brought up the idea to go for a walk (it was a grand day). We walked into the mall and walked around. We happened upon the same man playing piano.
Bleeding out our favorite songs while casually bringing us back to reality with the most casual questions in the process.
Beautiful “coincidence”.
Nevertheless, I’m still confronted with the dilemma of going to Canada or not…It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t have the burning desire to travel there anymore.
I will be given a deciding sign very soon.
You know your mom is cool when you can kick it in your room with a 40 of Old English and talk about true life with her while listening to Bonobo.
:],
Paul
I now take myself to a plane of miracles of action and silence of speech.
A place of infinite music and depth of feeling. Feeling no hollow dimension I have been burned by fire and forced into pastures that bear no fatalist fruit.
I am being graced. My life is a blank sheet awaiting a pens touch this is masculinity and femininity. The papers reception to a pens dominance creates life and story.
I am 23. I am human. Today I begin to write.
In my child’s cradle I will put the same ivory white moon shining through the same quiet sky falling to the dusty hush of a night cleansed by wind. Tucked around his blankets I’ll put shiny cars that by their roofs and windshields resound the light of the moon’s nourishing voice.
I saw Múm last night at the El Rey Theatre. They were fantastic but not as good as when they played the Orpheum. Afterwards I ate 1 and one-half hot dogs with the works. I talked to the bassist and the violinist about Iceland and music.
The bassist smoked me out with a joint and I got very high.
Not too bad. But it could be better. It will be better.
I must say I love to reflect.
I had a quiet day. I woke up and had a bowl of cereal- we had no spoons so I used a fork.
I listened to music and meditated. The sun shined brightly as I hoped.
I had a beautifully nude dream the night before- It was full of love…
I walked to my place of work to pick up my pay check.
Then I walked to this coin-op laundry place near home to do a load of whites and my work shirt by the time I finished drying my clothes I was cutting it close to getting to work on time. (I love to do my laundry here…these places usually have big windows with glorious urban lighting).
I stopped by home to drop off damp socks, boxers, and undershirts. I took my work shirt and lost it along the walk to work.
It feels good to hurt. To have a human arm twisted by life but the fires fuming from chimneys, the breeze sifting through trees, and the light that cadences through winter windows onto countertops cannot understand my call for uncle. I feel strong and I feel alive to this pain. I can laugh harder and think more clearly. I can love more. I am less ashamed. I stand more proud.
I am 23 and feel no day older but more fitted under my own skin-fitted into the grey hairs in my beard.
I am growing immune to these hardships and will continue to see the shine in everyday should I be blessed with eyes that continue to feel the warmth granted to me in everyday life.
I love you.
I find that when I am clawing marks on the sides of my neck my only refuge from the poisons of life are the very noises that I hum, pluck, and record. The sanctuary of a days’ work is what soothes burns and calms the growl that I keep from becoming a roar; preserving delicate glass from being shattered…stilling my breath, and slowing the blood flowing inside my veins.
