how many closets does one have to come out of already

breaking glass, david bowie

street sounds, if you listen very closely, be as quiet as you can, inside doors, contain seven billion stories. more.

someone told me once the meaning of respect, the root is to see again. innocence. wash clean. change of perspective. to see again.

stillness

is everywhere

ruined for love

i can only love you
and david bowie

meanwhile what is fucking wrong with people? car alarms??? ?? banking???? etcetera???
give it up give it up give it up
(god of contrast: praise your troubles away)

as the aries vegan said it's rough out in these heteronormative scenarios... sigh. new moon. sharing the stoop. tempering my anger with the suggestion to stay graceful, calm, calm talk, classy, whatevs so, instead of HURLING a sack of 7,600 copper pennies at city hall to pay to park for an extensive THREE hours in my neighborhood on a fucking saturday, maybe just set them GENTLY on the mayor's, or the department of municipal transit head's desk.

three material wishes, three soulful/artistic, three esoteric. go!

and furthermore ;) "i don't want to calm down!"

hey archivists of the future!

good luck eh!?
day number, hold on. counting skills...aw i don't care about the count. don't you wonder sometimes

street: french quarter it is putin! merde! same old.

1,200 savasanas

i think that is a fair estimate of my yoga history

heard on the street:
"honey, i'm a hooker, i don't crochet."

and, muffled trumpet. beautifully muffled. on purpose. i got a ten secomd recording; one day i will get my tech shit together 'nuf to post the sounds. what struck me listening to the recording was, wow, so loud is the street.

street score

furniture. SF's lingering spirit. then we were talking about, well it came up in an impromptu reference to the big red chair, clifford, the attitudes of furniture. as if! but we laughed. fuck you, pal.
saint francis. give it.

best barefoot shirtless player

day #244, night, roxy music

another good one; not the live youtube version tho; bryan ferry looked too coked out- which is an assumption only.

check out the vixens on the front cover- chicks with spears

laps

laps, the kinds you run, around and around, and around and around and around.

then, lapse, as in time, relapse, as in time again. time again. there is a car alarm in the far distance tonight.

it doesn't matter, everyday is another gift of witness. always gonna be pain. always gonna be someone making choices around you that you don't want.

i got out to the beach this weekend: the ocean and sky and sand are so expansive, so grounding, so much bigger than my little house in the city, so much more infinite; the view immediately so much more vast and true and never/always changing- than it sometimes feels in the little mind. why i like to go there: it's like a reset button. it just supports you.

what i appreciate this week is family, friends, in all their iterations.

and

music, music

day #239: rambunctiousness, car alarms, and ego-patrol

sensitive ones. delicate ones. rebellious ones. car alarms, riots and celebrations. how we express ourselves. how we act and interact.
that's all. desire, dreams, and meanwhiles.