le piaf


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A words trier, a stormy sea sailor, a jazz lover, a painting admirer, a poetry parser, a gig addict, a scent seeker, a harmony balancer. Or perhaps, a philanthropy practitioner, a knowledge seeker, a common grounds searcher, a truth resolver. Otherwise, tiny and frail creature who lives in deeds, not years. In thoughts, not breaths. In feelings, not in figures on a dial. And who also counts time by heartthrobs. Because most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Saturday, January 16, 2010


Rain and rain. Not yet the oppressive, relentless rain but the first storm, wind rattling the chimes in the plum tree, leaves flattened to the ground, everything washed clean. Rain that feels good to step out into and lift your face and know it's lucky to be alive no matter what.
There are 5 messages in my inbox, 1 on my ICQ. Messages that are still there because they require a response in some way. If I manage to get down to 2 or 3 I feel like I've got it somewhat under control. That's another kind of relentlessness - what's asked of us, what's required, every day. Or almost every day. Sometimes it's best to just check out. To let the world go unanswered. Even if we're not doing anything much, not writing, not even trying to write, not getting things done. The world will be there.


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