It's hard to write when the music won't stop playing upstairs. I try to find beginnings. Even when I don't know the plot, when I find a start the rest follows as naturally as rainfall. But when I have a choir of violins in my head and an acoustic guitar strumming underneath, I can't seem to figure out what to write, why to write it, or the point of dry words at all. The song that won't leave me alone, thankfully, is Astral Weeks. That's Van Morrison, kids. I bookend it mentally with Minstrel Boy by Joe Strummer and All I Want Is You by U2. Hello mixtape, I'm calling you.

Lovely wings of the dove above, slow-motion.

I try to avoid explicitly referencing music or literature in this journal. It's about me, not what I see and hear. This is a journal, not a weblog. I generally leave my references in obtuse headings and winking uncredited quotings. Yet with no place to wander my think, I slip my rules.

So I'm not here. My mental gears are quiet. All that's left in the absence of thought is sense. Five senses. I have warm blood. Smoke. Movement is easy, free and cheap. I am light of foot - I'm used to more effort and grimace to move. Now without that tackle, without that burden. No hangover penance. No pain for inspiration, no need for distraction. I can float. It's a good mood nowhere.

I speak my language. Abstractions like puzzle pieces whose picture I know, dropped in a pile online. You, reader, can't see that image, but fragments may shine when the light strikes them fine. Litte dots to dance and prance and all fall down.

Now more violins.
1:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm