It's a little before 730 in the morning. Steamy Sunday. I didn't sleep last night. A bit here, a bit there. Up here on the couch. Downstairs in bed. Nightmares. Heat. Soreness. An hour here. 30 minutes there. Up and down the stairs. A ghost.
About an hour ago, I gave up, declared myself awake, and came up here for good. I finished The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which was a perfect, floaty way to begin a day that never really ended. It reaffirmed things I think I know, about mystery, and about my aversion to answers.
I'm sitting here, in a small, rare moment of grace. I know I'm a writer. A poet. An illuminator but never an explainer. That's my job. It's what I'm best at. (Though some might disagree.) It's what I like doing best. (Which no one can disagree with, because they're not me.)
I don't mind that I'm good at making music. Not at all. I like making music. But it's so flashy, what I can do, that it shines it's own klieg light (as Nancy would say) on the subtler, mysterious, can't-quite-put-one's-finger-on-it nature of my poetic imagination.
I'm not quitting music. I'm not quitting the outer life completely. Fuck knows, I just signed up for another 12 months of being everyone's favorite charismatic new age nutter. But just acknowledging which part of myself, which job I like better. feels important. It opens the door for further change.
As for yesterday : it was nothing, really. Bug and I had two talk-y meals together (one of which was all about keeping Luna Station alive, yet again). I canceled on Julia, regrettably, as I knew I didn't have the heart and stardust to have one of our marvelous evenings in the city. E went down to her birth family, for a foolish reunion thing, and came back in not the best shape. So we went for a ride to Greenwood Lake in the dark, and I got the new Sara Bareilles record and at least we moved around a bit and loved together. Which is about as much as I can ask for right now.
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