Driving into Kansas City tonight at sunset with the Missouri River off to my right.
I’m alive in the night,
Can you hear me breath?
I’m the wind in your hair,
I’m the whistle in the breeze
I’m the chime at 12
And the stars in the sky
I’m the wrinkle in your bed sheets,
The yellow porch light
I’m the creak in your bed
When your dreams melt down
I’m the static noise of the silent sound
I’m your sweet dream kiss,
And your worst nightmare
I’m your REM in the midnight air.I’m alive in the night
I confide in the midnight sky
In the moon I bloom,
In the sun I’m sleeping tight
If you believe that the tides gonna rise with the man in white
Then you believe that I’m
Alive at night.
Quebec 2012
going two weeks without cleaning your house is too long for you? lololol… you are clearly not a bachelor. also, who is that stranger? using the word “stranger” makes it sound like he just broke in and started cleaning with no prior arrangement.
As I said, it is uncharacteristic of me. It’s not about the cleanliness, it’s about the loss of independance. However temporary it may be.
I failed to mention I was paying someone I do not know.
There is a stranger here cleaning my house right now.
Now that I have been given orders to stay off my ankle, my home is appearing more and more desperate to be scrubbed and cleaned. I keep things relatively tidy but I haven’t put a glove to anything in the last two weeks. I have more than enough hobbies and interesting things to do during my convalescence, but instead I have become uncharacteristicly distracted by my floors and walls, constantly judging the cleanliness of my surroundings. And judging myself. I like to live and flop around here, not obsess about it. Now, I am just beating myself up about not being able to haul a big bucket of hot soapy water around and climb to all the places where dirt may be lurking. I have more than enough friends and family that are repeatedly offering help but I am independent to the bone and have a hard time admitting I need assistance. And now, someone else is actually cleaning my home. My bones may be broken but I think it’s my psyche that’s taken the biggest hit.
I haven’t been to a country auction in ages. Auctions, like bingo, are places where I can’t help but behave badly. I have none of that required etiquette. I get giddy and laugh and talk way too much and interfere with the “serious” players apparently. Once, my enthusiasm was mistaken for a item bid and I ended up walking away owning a pair of men’s size thirteen moccasins.
Nevertheless, I think I’ll assemble an entourage and take a trip up to Creemore in March to check out the wares.
Give Me Love - Ron Sexsmith (George Harrison cover)
two of my favorites
day two on set at Casa Loma
I went on a tour of this castle decades ago.
Last time I was there, I had a photo gig for a wedding. It’s pretty this time of year.
On the floor,
constructed in the dark,
away from the glow,
the light,
spilling in from the next room,
face lit half moon, semi-bright
and a mystery pinning an unread letter
to the flesh
with a single, ghost needle-
there the body goes deep,
covered with rocks and weeds
and the swarm of sex,
a naked rose studied and studying
one soul
in a room,
on the floor,
invisible, scratched
and signed.
bonne nuit image for this day
as I make one last mad dash across the River Styx
into the Arms of Morpheus
to claim my kith and kin in the land of Nod!
(photo credit: Robin Baumgarten)
(Source: whothefuckisleonora, via dreaminginthedeepsouth)
