Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: I can't dance.

Solution: I let the music give me more joy, so much joy that I can't help but move my hips whenever I hear it, and everything else follows. It's harder than it sounds.

Complication: Peeing at concerts. Or, for that matter, in the shower (I like to listen to music in the shower. And now I can dance!). I need a shower with a ceiling-high door, not a curtain. And God help anybody else who uses the soap.
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Celery

Those who endure the imperfection of celery are trapped in a painful semi-consciousness, not knowing whether to chop or throw away the only part left -- the flaccid yellowing pieces toward the center. Salads of great beauty flow through their minds, but their minds cramp up, unable or unwilling to commit to adding less than a perfect crunch to tuna and mayonnaise and maybe cumin, chicken and mayonnaise and Dijon mustard, even beans. Even beans.

Then there is no salad -- no salad at all. The great salad architects have become saladless, dry, and it's a chore to eat. They have not yet discovered that they are seeing their own faults, their own imperfect textures, through a magnifying glass with a handle of celery and a celery-colored lens.

Three Links

It's getting very warm and green here, and that makes me worry about how to both dress comfortably and conceal my needle-bruised arms. Three-quarter sleeves, I suppose. But then I remember that I don't inject drugs or own a three-quarter sleeve shirt. I wonder why I'm worrying about that. But then again, why do I worry about the war in Afghanistan?

These are interesting bits, in no particular order (what affects one of us affects us all):

1) In case you want a little more attention in public

2) "Of Images And Reflections..."

3) A Softer World: 553

A happy day and night or night and day to everyone.
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The Idea

The idea still is to celebrate life and its sensations. Keeping the smell of Spring, this idea must remain even beneath the weight of self-doubt, that skinny squinting interrogator whose bony fingers pull me down by my nose hairs (then clip 'em, fool). But no matter how short they are, he always gets up in there. That's what he does. That's his work, and he's good at it, and if it serves to underline my ignorance, that's okay. Life's zip must remain, and I should never assume that I know anything until it feels exactly right.

If done right, life makes the sensitive parts tingle to the point of pain, the feeling that, as the chainsawed, neon-vested city workers approach, maybe motivates the sparrow to sing of its home, "Tree-tree-joy (I sing and fuck, I sing and crap in my) tree-tree-joy." Then the cruel work of the saw, acceptably crazy because you gotta keep the power lines clear.

There will be loss, displacement, and its great sweeps of emotion freeze me, but soon I get back to hammering. I hammer words and chip off more than I should. It's crude, but it's my work. Work is important to a man. In a vulnerable moment, my work allows a clear view inside to anyone who's looking, who has been bitten and not yet dead within.

The idea is I can dance. I just keep the hips loose and keep the mind away. That feels good.

The idea is I can fly. Rather, I can survive a fall.
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