In what feels like the 99th hour today and yesterday of wrangling the mundane and the wild mind, this came on SiriusXM and suddenly I floated away to a white coastal house ringed by a wide porch, palms spiking and lazy trees swaying around it, the air heavy and sweet. And I look down and see my tan chest and shoulders under a white cargo top...no, a boatneck, filmy...oh, hell, it doesn't matter because I am finally in a moment that makes all the bland and monkey-minded time worthwhile, I have no worries, I have no cares, I don't have to check email, any email, I can feel the sun.
This mirage is all I have since the sun won't be back for another 120 days, really...
I need to write something so I can feel something. I need to pick something to write to feel about. Climbing up the wagon wheels is daunting. Oh, wait. I am mixing metaphors. I'm climbing back onto a horse, I have not fallen off of a wagon. Or, I'm climbing onto the horse that was once pulling the wagon that I was upon? Did I want to be on this wagon?
No. No. This should, at least, be easier than clambering to sit astride a horse, but it's not when you feel like your mind is a jumble and the chutes that take you away from the jumble are ultimately unbeneficial and lead to things like watching The Match Game-Hollywood Squares Hour into the night, laboring over work emails, and, in fact, writing everything in the style of a work email (I hope you are well!).
Heart: Well, write something already. Pick a song!
Head: But I want to google Paul Davis AND Andrew Gold, compile a comparative synthesis of their lives/styles/origins. And paint my nails. Toes and fingers.
Heart: *headdesk*
Head: Fine. Fine! All the best, Head.
Well, this one has been around a lot lately. You'd think SiriusXM's programming well would be infinite, but--at least in the soft/yacht/mellow rock areas--there's a lot repeated. That's okay, since hashtag-Soft-Rock-Saved-Me. Paul's gentle plea is cumulatively effective this way. Plus, my flowers are outside literally dying right now because it's the coolest Cool Night we've had since April (or May).
You don't have to take a stand, he says. Lay out any plans. Just come on over. Just be. Just do.
Change is the only thing, though it hasn't been in quite some time. The contours of daily life got crushed like spaghetti going into a boiling pot, softened, and became a meal you had to eat every night for a year-plus.
Now I'm given a plate of lasagne every few days, and I'm not sure whether it's going to hold up or slide all over my plate.
I can't set the structure and choose my pasta, but, boy, I gotta try to find a way to enjoy it.
Maybe it's true what they say about it
Maybe we can't make the ends meet Maybe we'll all have to do without it Maybe this world's just incomplete
Still we all look for the truth in our lives Searching from different sides So hard living in a desperate world But we all do the best that we can
Some people see a change Some will remain the same But all of them live their lives under the gun Some see the road as clear Some say the end is here They say it's a hopeless fight, well I say I gotta try
Maybe there's too much to think about it Maybe there ain't nothin' left to say But if our time's really runnin' out Then this is no time to run away
'Cause we're destined to look for the truth in this life Blinded by tearful eyes If it's no use tryin' in a desperate world Then tell me why was I born
Some people see a change Some will remain the same But all of them live their lives under the gun Some see the road as clear Some say the end is here They say it's a hopeless fight, but I say I gotta try
Lonely-living too lonely Is it too late To turn it all around
Some people see a change Some will remain the same But all of them live their lives under the gun Some see the road as clear Some say the end is here They say it's a hopeless fight, but I say I gotta try
Someone's tryin' Someone's cryin' out While we live under the gun Someone's livin' Someone's givin' up
