Summer, Part 3

I am typing down these words. In the background, Jeff Buckley is singing, "kiss me, please kiss me," and I am wondering who he wrote the song for, and if he really did write it, and I am thinking, there is so much I am uncertain about, there is so much I don't know. There is no point to these words, to these thoughts, but I am hoping there will be. I resist the urge to stop. There is always the urge to. We wonder about the things we do, we wonder about the sense in them, or if there is any sense to the things we do. But we keep at it, we do not stop. At least, not when it matters--when it matters to us. Most of the time, the things that mean so much to us would not make sense to other people. I wonder about other people. I wonder about the things that mean something to them.

The song has ended, another one has begun. I wonder what sound will come out if the last one and "Lilac Wine" overlapped, at some point. If moments of our lives overlapped, what would it be like? Do moments ever overlap? What do the sciences say about time? It is a thought I do not wish to pursue. I can feel the sweat on my temples. "Why is everything so hazy?' Jeff Buckley sings. Outside, the sun is going mad with its own glory. How exaggerated the heat these days, have been. The word "exaggerated" was deliberately chosen, yes. Today is May 1st. It always rains on May 1st. Today, there is no rain, and the heat does not seem to have any plans of making way for rain. The heat always compels me to write. Sunlight such as this stirs up so much, but when I sit down to name them, I keep drawing blanks. There is nothing new in this.

"Oh, that was so real, oh, that was so real, oh, that was so real," Buckley sings. And then there is something about the moon and the wind. I go blank. I am wondering what to write next. Was it so real? This morning, I went through my stash of unfinished stories. I wonder if I would ever get to finish them. These things mean nothing to you, I know. But now, Jeff Buckley is singing, "Well, I heard there was a secret chord", and I pause to listen. Some songs command one to listen. Am I making sense to you?

Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah


The song has ended. I have run out of things to say.

Diving into this wreck (an exercise on randomness),

these are what I came up with:

A list of things to do, two items in all. A bunch of keys, minus one key. A view from a window, moonlit and square. Left-over sadness in a yellow mug. 

A thin volume of poetry, dog-eared where the months have settled. Some random dream of forgetting, wafting in some fugitive breeze. 

A movie ticket, a concert ticket, four recital programs, three laundry receipts. 

Strings, an unlabeled bottle, forgiveness. Irony. A lotus flower, lilac and plastic. A smooth, round paperweight, squinting under the lamplight. 

A torn piece of laughter. Dust. A pill. 

An empty notebook. Shyness, folded beneath folded years. A pinwheel. 

Four pencils, sharpened and useless. A memory of trees, the comfort in shadows. 

A lone moth. A strand of sunsets. Blue post-its. An unfinished letter. A question. 

Nine questions. No answer. No answers.

Place, date and time, irrelevant

Yes, I violated the dress code and got away with it. So I'm staying in and taking it easy. Been stretched enough this week so I'm 'a loosen up real good. 

Tea for two, and the boy's been singing Ray Charles and trying his hand on the Beatles. I must be doing something right. Today, I saw someone texting while crossing a busy street. 

Bayo Whats Your Mix 30% nymph 30% elf 30% mermaid 10% human -- walang kokontra. But, oh, this schizo weather. How is it possible that I can't ever seem to get enough of you? Cryptic is what you are. 

The morning stretches out before me, like a giant yawn. Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, Natalie Merchant, Aimee Mann, Joni Mitchell. Spending QT with my girls. Slept the night away. For once. Glad to note the sun's toning it down a bit. Orange twilight, yesterday. 

12-year old girl, reading JD Salinger's Nine Stories. Am I making the right decisions? 

Finding comfort in numbness. I am currently obsessed with pens. Life's getting a little too fond of throwing me lemons. Waiting for the door to open! Pinks and paisleys, I love. 

Your coffee has grown cold. I need a Miles Davis/John Coltrane fix. Ah, what a noisy world this is. Been awake for 28 hours, and counting. You keep telling me to stop thinking too much. Know what? Maybe I should. I realize that to get out of this box, I ought to start digging. And I realize that to undo your sadness, I have to undo your childhood. 

I miss the coffee and the conversations. Was that thunder I heard? 

Because I'm too lazy to look up the synonym of random

Because I like starting my sentences with "because", I let it go at that. Even if the clock shows 8:19 a.m. and the bottle of my favorite perfume is nearly empty and I could hardly recall the stories I had told last Sunday night, or what I might have told if my umbrella were orange instead of blue. Or who would ever think it isn't really a book that's underneath the three books on top of my dresser but a planner that goes so well with how hard we all had laughed when we realized the tequila hadn't at all gone to our heads because sober is as sober goes as far as that pile of bags is concerned. So two pairs of shoes have died this month and I linked my arm around a friend's arm because, indeed, I couldn't bear to walk without mulling this thought over my head and it's forget-me-nots, my dear, not Deep Purple, or Carole King.

Pffftt...

If somebody asked me what the verbal equivalent of a rolling of the eyes is---

--I don't think I'd know what to answer.

Resist

Simmering after that extended outburst did you think it'd be this soon the blue takes over In the middle of pretending to give options would any of those two have done it for you That secret relief oh that blessing of an exhale over his refusal to choose it brought in the calm oh what heaviness a sigh takes away what appeasement after the knockdown how tempting to give in to the pull of that traitor of a smile tiny and tugging

Sorry, M--.

This crossed my mind while I was brushing my teeth this morning:

Between "Before Sunrise" and "Singles" is the distinction between "being" and "is".