Interlude

Mo chuisle, you have come back.

Rest now, dear heart. Rain has laced the evening with crystal drops; look at how they shimmer in the moonlight. The night has shed away its mournfulness, and is once more fragrant with promise.

Do not keep this brightening at bay; let yourself be consumed by its radiance.

Tomorrow's sunlight waits. Love hovers at your fingertips.

So jazz music is really a conversation

one eavesdrops on and it is of course a good kind of eavesdropping, though one could always choose to exert effort and pretend to be discreet as if the conversation isn't something one should be privy to. Either way, the

chatter between the drums and the sax and the trumpets and the piano and the cello and all that scatting

should perk the mind up into action so that one emerges more intelligent after the whole auscultating-slash-snooping thing, or more awake, at least, because all that exchange could only be more poetry than non-poetry

and poetry more often bestirs the brain cells than not, so it is, perhaps, safe to say that aside from a confabulation among voice and/or instruments, jazz is also poetry.

We chase art and don't know it--

the iPod we patiently save part of our paychecks for; the concert we brave the Friday rush hour to get to, on time; that painting in the cafe we always find ourselves staring at, because the taste of the coffee goes so well with the sight of the colors on the canvas; that tune we hum inside our heads the entire day; that novel, that book of poetry we forego lunch for; those few, short lines we hunt pen and paper to scribble down. That itch to see, that craving to hear.

We often feel the urge to burst into song and almost always find that there is no crowd, no one, to sing for.

Hence, we sing to ourselves.

And that would do, for now.

The weight of ninety-seven ticking clocks

Facing a door almost always brings about that feeling of waiting, that sense of expectation, some imminent arrival--

even when there is no beginning to circle back to, in the first place.

I guess one's distance from the door presents what available gradations of anticipation there may be.

I am approximately eleven wide steps away from a door. And, no, I am not waiting for someone, or anything, in particular.

Still, yes, there is that feeling. That feeling.

These days,

I keep hearing more and more people end their sentences with "or am I just getting old?"

Or am I just getting old?

So, Kathryn Bigelow is James Cameron's ex-wife. Interesting fact. Guess too much genius does split a unit into two.

Anyway, had an interesting conversation with a friend today, over coffee and after-work relief. Don't you feel lucky to have people to talk to, just because? I do. And this after years of self-inflicted isolation inside sturdy walls, built with much care, one gray brick after the other. What a relief it is to realize that once the teenage angst and the depression of my early twenties had crumbled down, so did those walls. Once in a while, I do find myself feeling the urge to put them back up, brick after brick--but only once in a while. And I always find myself stopping half-way. There's almost always something that distracts me.

(End of speech and cheese)

Been raving about "Avatar" this week. I'm not a fan of Sci-Fi (both film and Lit--I hated my College Sci-Fi class so much, I built walls around me the whole semester), but this movie grabbed me and grabbed me hard.

Oh, hey, I ended up circling back to James Cameron (sans Kathryn B.), after all. Completely unintentional, thank you.

Have a great afternoon ahead.