I have to write

I haven't written in a few days, I have to write. I have to go sit and write. this usually does not take place from the comfort of the dozen or so walls that I currently reside in. no, it requires an out and a purpose and a place to not look at the dishes and lights yet to be hung, at the sink or the bed that I thought about making - now staring back at me. waiting.

I have to write.

today is anger, terror, fear, dissapointment...
today is also love, acceptance, helpfulness, and now.
right now is faux wood laminate chairs and built to spill.

as I run, little feet following big feet, my flip flops in the impressions her pink low-tops have left before me, I find myself suddenly plagued with luxury. What Do I Want To Do. what dreams do I want to fulfill. I wrote a list down today of a bunch of things that I like, am capable of, and want. I am a photographer in the mind of a writer in the body of a groupie in the office of a mortgage broker.

the woman on my front porch a few minutes ago wanted nothing more than to take it all in. I wanted to leave. she's living her dreams. in between beads of sweat I told her how she'd already helped me. she was thin and small and beautiful. she knew things. like strangers on a blind date know if they've found each other or not.

maybe I'm doing it already.

I've been pointing out so well how other people are living, getting tangled up with myself in the meantime. so much has changed. so much has gotten better. but then more has been required - the fine tuning, the subtleties...

(cue you were wrong / when you said / everything's going to be alright... through the coffeeshop speakers)

~~~

and as fate would have it , built to spill is going to be at toad's in october. how's that for a segway...

so I'm completely, utterly and a totally terrified about city wide open studios. this morning, that's where the sentence ended. scared to the point of being immobilized. so I scanned through all of my files and came up with about eighteen shots, shots that may quite possibly be fit for consumption. and now it's not so scary anymore. as I sit, storefront coffeeshop sidewalk, curled up across two chairs. there is a hypersensitivity about everything. an ultra-awareness, an absolute moment-being-in-wondrousness. at the same time there's almost a paranoia about everything that might be: here, not here, will I see everything I want before I die, will it all go flying by me, do I have the balls to do anything about any of it, really - it's hard not to fall back into old mindsets, that everyone else knows what's going on but you, who do you think you are anyways, etc. etc. I could sleep all the time but I hate that feeling that I'm missing everything, but still - I'd love the sleep. we're going to have to go inside once the weather turns cold, and my furniture will get reduced to piles of shelving. I don't want these things anymore. I don't want to keep focusing on things that don't matter, and the less I have, the less I can do (in the good way). I cleaned my entire apartment in about twenty minutes. I don't need to buy anything, really. except maybe some pants when fall comes.

I put my fucking photos together. I almost can't believe it. now I think that something's wrong, they're the wrong shots - fuck it. it's all bullshit. I'm fucking doing this, dammit.

and it's a perfect saturday. it can't be more than seventy five degrees, shade, breeze - footsies and the paper would be nice.

but it's no longer a requirement.

~vvb