So it is that I'm listening to Serge Gainsbourg this bitterly frigid January evening. I have a feeling I'll tire of him quickly. It's two seconds later and I have indeed tired of that French fuck. Excuse the language, but he provokes that in me. I'll listen to him another time when I'm in the mood. I prefer his daughter anyway. And so it is that I'm listening to Tom Waits's classic Swordfish Trombones. I have a feeling he'll be sticking around a bit longer.
Today wasn't a bad one but it was segmented with thoughts of my father. Grief is still a resident; a vivid palpable murky merciless graceful presence; enshrined in a fucking swirling paradox I am. Oh, but I miss you, Dad, with an ache that hasn't diminished and that is the bottom line of it. I just miss you.
Yesterday I went through close to an hour of vinyasa followed by some plank positions, back bends, and ab work. The vinyasa portion was cool, for lack of a cooler word, and the more rounds I went through, the more energy I had. And not the type of energy that makes you feel like you've got to go run a few miles or punch a few people in the throat in order to expel it from your system; no, this was something different. I felt as light as something that might appear on any number of winged creatures. Not now, though; now, I'm a bit sore. Whatever.
Increasingly, I'm feeling the desire to move. Or, perhaps it has to do more with my living situation. Either way, there is inner agitation.
Off to work on some music. What I need to do is write lyrics, but I resist the idea like it's a bowl full of disgusting raisins. Oh, not quite so bad, but it's not always a gleeful endeavor. I'll give it a whirl. Or maybe, because I feel a bit run down, I'll watch a movie or something.
Peace out, worms.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment