all the news that print will fit.
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| notes from underground - societal whispers all the news that print will fit. |
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Sunday, January 23, 2005 np: velvet crush - teenage symphonies to god the weekend had a rocky start, what with coming home to find my apartment quasi-flooded. i was stepping down the hallway and heard a sound. thinking i had stepped on cellophane or some such item, i looked down, saw nothing and continued. then i heard the squish. it got worse as i went back into my bedroom and closet. i would step down and wells of water would gather beneath my feet. luckily the apartment people were quick to get help and the problem was (more or less) resolved by 6:30pm. still, some albums i had on the floor now have warped covers and sleeves. a bit depressing. saw beautiful snow this weekend in asheville, although i wasn't totally able to enjoy it since it had me constantly worrying my ability to get back to greensboro today. but, despite the sub-freezing temperatures, the drive back was easy. this morning, while dreamily, warmly wrapped in bed, my muse called. as it often does when i'm doing things i can't normally just quit in order to write. (driving my car, sleeping, etc.) but, i yielded this morning, knowing it's been awhile since i've written. this is a draft, but i thought i'd share. as always comments and critique are really appreciated. -- days are waking up as snow dances 'cross the road creating images a seamless painter would hesitate to recreate with fingertips of satin and a palette full of sounds and ghosts and spirits. these are days where shades of grey coat every tree and every river every movement, every word and every prayer. these are days where i tremble while the wind sweeps the nimble and the good and peaceful men to early graves. and then men who will say 'forget the things that forged the way, 'cos what's a river if you cannot change its will?' so in winter time i gather and i rarely stray outside except to carry water to a thirsty man. he will either drink and beg for more or curse the hands that bear it forgetting all things come from someone before. these are days where fragile ideas with tenuous connections to the great unflinching truth are abundant. so my prayers begin and end with a question, a practice that i got from men before. 'if i could paint with any color, any sense or any vision, why do they only give me black or white?' posted by J. Neas | 1/23/2005 10:50:00 PM
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