In the cab home, I spied boys, boys in short sleeves, in the D&D parking lot with six packs straining plastic bags, dangling pendulous from handlebars of their bikes. I thought about a line from Blue Highways I read a few hours before, over ample plains; he's descibing a bog on the verge of spring, but it's about something bigger than the season effects of a tupelo swamp:
Things once squeezed close, pinched shut, waiting to become something else, something greater, were about ready.
Out of California mind state and home to soggy glamour, I feel in love with prospects and making after scouring the Sister Corita book I got today--inspiration to DO has come on like a command--and in tandem with faked out spring promise. Making little arts feel tangible, which is lucky, because I think the rest is out of order. I keep trying to talk but my conversationalability is way broken, so I think it's best to just use my hands and keep busy with them. My thinking and theory and work function is tired out, and I only have small talk to offer--anecdotes about animals, feelings, the two tv shows I like, the forecast--the limited gamut of old person chit chat, essentially. I told Cali my theory that something is wrong with my brain, this morning, over a breakfast of melon balls eaten up in a Hollywood parking lot. He assured me nothing is wrong with my brain, I'm just in between things. Like in between spaces of knowing one thing and knowing a new another, I think. I trust him enough to be willing to go on him being right on this one. Then, not long after that, he dropped his cigarette to the ground to put it out, but it landed perfectly balanced, standing on it's filter, ash end to the sky. We took it as an omen and let it be.Posted by Jessica at March 13, 2007 11:24 PM | TrackBack