There's Something In The Way She Moves.
I have been humming some song for a couple of days. I couldn't place it, until today, reading some poetry, I caught myself with the words
There's something in the way she moves
Or looks my way
Or calls my name
That seems to leave this troubled world behind
I promptly forgot it. And then, coming out of the bathroom, I remembered I was going to listen to James Taylor when I got home.
(I am fully aware of how uncool this makes me, but when you're raised with something, it's hard to let it go)
And so I am. Really loudly.
The smell of pumpkin apple muffins is slowly working it's way out of the oven, and that always makes most everything alright. I made them from scratch, and I'm not fucking sharing. Maybe with Kristin, but only because she's bringing me turkey tomorrow, in my smoking, drinking haze. But that's it.
. . .
I walked into the kitchen, looking for my coffee cup, and noticed my mom's sitting on the counter. Then I remembered she's not here.
. . .
My issues lay in the fact that I can't let a thought go by without picking it up and sticking it under a high powered microscope. I'd really like to just let them stay in the kitchen sink with the dirty dishes.
. . .
I bought this CD in Boulder with Dave, and he hated it. I've been known to put Mexico on repeat, in mid winter, and close my eyes.
. . .
And the muffins are done.
And I've poured myself my first drink of my day and a half bender.
Here's to chronic updating.