Selections from the box

I enjoy me in a foreign country, even 10+ years ago, but seriously, go talk to the bartender...

3.14.00

Well, here I am, sitting in a café populated by a large-nosed Spaniard, his tall and somewhat attractive girlfriend, an an attractive bartender.  I have no idea what to write about.  I feel good.  I like this place, it makes me comfortable.  Mellow music, no Americans, light enough to see, dark enough to fade into, you know.  Sweet taste of café con Bailey's only a buck and change...better than Starbucks.  Damn Seattle folk.

The Spaniard and (I assume) his novia (because Spaniards can't be friends with girls) just left, leaving me alone in this place with the bartender.  Maybe I should go talk to her.  I guess the only issue left here is to decide whether I want to talk to her or not.  Indeed (efectivamente), this is turning into more of a "slice of life" than any sort of argumentative attempt.  Sometimes, though, these are the pieces that are the most valuable.

The atmosphere is lovely.  I'm forced to write by social graces.  What I mean is, I couldn't, in a socially acceptable manner, just sit here and stare at the bartender.  A sort of indirect, but pleasant discipline.  I don't like to take photos.  Indeed, each photo is an abortion of a thousand words.  What's happening here?  Some guy just walked in and is speaking in a disagreeable tone.  I never saw his face.

This piece seems to lack a certain interest, but perhaps the meaning will be realized later. 
---

The garage drinker says...

The Old Style can is beautiful in the dusty garage light.  Perspiring, it sits on the workbench beneath the glass block windows between the pruning shears and the Weed-B-Gon.  I pick it up and put it to use.  It's so cold.

There are no limits to the places the mind can go if the heart will send it.  The fount is life is new experience, facing the unknown with enthusiasm.  We all want something beautiful, and it may be out there beyond the garage door or it may be deep in the cavern of my head.

How I Am

I define myself through writing, how the words come together, the constant little changes, evolution and creation.  There's a bringing forth.  When I write, I bathe in light.  It is always morning.  It shows me in detail.

There is another definition, leaden.  It is a crossing of seamless boundaries, a terror.  It is a dramatic and perverse lens that pulls and purples the world, distorting words, perceptions, and intentions.  It is the other side of the coin.

Mother knows.

Spider bite

When I scratch an itch, there is such intense relief, the pleasure receptors so flooded that in attempting to prolong it, to revel in it, I will scratch until I bleed.

It's indulgence to the point of damage.  I am not incapable of self-control, just unwilling to give up the silvery haze of pleasure in the moment. There is, after all, only the moment.