Tonight begins three days of rain that scare the cats into the background and I keep drinking really tall glasses of water from the jug not the sky. I told them no it’s okay you’re safe with me and I’m not gonna let nothing happen to you. Tonight is its own night quiet and done with, not like Friday or the next. I can forgive Sunday its following Monday because I’m in the moment or aspire to be. When Monday arrives I’ll face the little office moments as little office moments and nothing more, nothing all that significant in the world of things outside of being pushed really hard (dead lines).
Thing is, sometimes you just have to slow down and kill one bug at a time, chop one tree at a time, and go tell your minister the guilt. Dance it out, he’ll say. Write it out. Blindfold your girl, he’ll say. Good advice flying all around – all in so many formats and goodbyes in the pan flipped up over and sizzling. Can you believe it? Rain as music? Yeah, rain is lovely and I don’t mind getting wet so much. I can get started and tell the tiniest stories to just a few friends who put their ears in close enough.
Death is all around us, damn. Each moment is a slow or fast death of our relationship with something. But our kind and loving thoughts and deeds go for miles and speak volumes reach beyond death which hates books and cinema. Kerouac had it right that writing is jazz how it flows like a horn player like a drummer doing his thing – when you do it right. With writing it’s just you and all the other players are offstage out in the world depending on you to flow your best.