something i'm listening to :
the good, the bad, & the queen. damon albarn has yet to disappoint. one day i want to write music like this, but about something else.

something i'm writing, slowly:
short stories set in the distant future, and one set in the future that is already here

something i ate today:
a slice of half-week old pizza from some internet-recommended queens pizzeria, but it was good. the sauce was better on the first day. it tasted like it was made by someone's foodie grandmother.

some place i don't really want to go to again:
london. the food didn't taste like anything i'd want again. i didn't find anything i was looking for, except shallow creek oysters from borough market. they were delicious, and i cracked my first smile while i was there. i paid with a stack of coins, because that's how the british roll, and wondered if coin purses were a popular thing with old ladies in europe.

some place new i do want to go to:
hong kong. i think i'd find something there, probably food.

some place i'd like to photograph:
flooded salt flats after the rain at sunset, probably bolivia.

something i'd like to eat for dinner:
paella, or atkelt wat & injera.

thursday morning feels

it's thursday and i have reports and analyses to do, all due tomorrow so i am playing inoffensive morning work music, the stuff that would make you cry or something if you were young and lost in life in your twenties, and in love or in heartbreak or something, but instead, it's just pleasant good tunes. the singer has feels yeah, but i am bopping my head along to the beat. i like that these singers feel their feels, and i like that i don't have the feels that they are singing about.

30, and thursdays, and the americano i made with espresso from the deli down the block in downtown brooklyn fills me with something i am looking for. i take a sip, and can't taste bitterness at all; it is almost sweet without being sweet, and it is definitely mellow. it is a nice bean, and i don't even know what bean they use.

february is just another month, and this is just another week headed towards its close. the temperature of the open window and the heater in my apartment are just fine.

feelings on the radio, scrolling songs to find the one that has your heart ripped open and raw.

before, there were only so many stations. you had to turn the speakers off when your car ran out of signals, but now, you never have to stop searching for a space to sit in. at least, not until the fatigue hits you.

the blues, and upbeat, syncopated piano because you need that synth waver to break up the emotion, because you are not a teenage girl and her pillows in the afternoon, but a man on a mission, and a broken heart knows mostly only its own misfortune.

the fear of too many pills, but it's not today, even though you already take one for your headaches, and vitamins for health, and whiskey, because whiskey is the solution for all the little things.

--

work is not really the place for friends. i don't think new orleans is either, but i don't think not having friends is the problem, so much as the need for new conversations.

being alone is playing spotify in your room on a friday night while rocking an ebbing fever and the single vodka-water in an aquamarine martini glass close to midnight, and your feelings are somewhere between fuzzy bluegrass breakup songs and rowdy gypsy jazz with a splash of punk.

gonna transition from rhythmic to drumming. fuck that shit, i can drum.
if i can't find the amazing drummer, i'll be one. arrhythmic poets are where it's at. you've got to have a feel for rhythm to break it, & to smash it together. so many boys/girls are so a-to-b, start-to-finish; it works but lacks the complexity i get cravings for.

the key, is to live to your music. if you are the drum, the bodies beat.
are we gods, or are we the reptile in our hindbrains? both.
humanity is not the poles, but the between.

bedding & sheets. i could get tangled up in yours, i like them, but i have to know that you want it, right where it hurts.
it's a waste to have a love in your bed otherwise, to have the image of what's desired, but to not feel it. feeling is where it's at.

some people edit for technical performance & structure, which i appreciate. aesthetics are important. i get a kick out of sweeping in & doing my work on the soul/heart of the piece. it is the sun. everything else, is just flowers & dark space.

richter gives me chills.

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boys are adorable.  i'm hard hitting on an edge in me & it's all my jazz standards in the shower, all lovely-resonant, & sudden midverse beatbox-rap thigh-slap-drums, wet rain grooves.

most words dissatisfy. most moods, too. burritos.
and this is where the guitar falls into my hands. sometimes song is just beautiful aggression.

i do think you're beautiful. do i have to tell you?