Listening

to the chard in my garden sing to me.

Watching

Two of my favorite things:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjTz3sT91ms

Did

belt sanded the hell out of the DBC. and I'm so psyched on it.

Thinking

I am four years old, and everything behind me disappears.

Thinking

I am isabel, and I have age identifying facial muscles.

Listening

Merc's mother speak.

Thinking

The mundanity of bus conversations invades real life. The louder speakers talk of neighborhood foxes & dogs crying to get out. I will dream of this later. One woman speaks of warrants, a new west cops and robbers, permeated with mystery & intrigue. Her statements are over run by words about: 

His bathroom vanity set

a book she may or may not have read

nothing

There is a story worth writing here, but the collective mind can't pull it together, can't sit down & say: let's make this good, we are of interest.

As a culture RTD is no Dostoevsky. RTD is no intimate conversation with any stranger. RTD is nothing at a all. 

Say something important.