Sitting at the kitchen table next to the back porch windows: grey cold, wet outside. Inside: vintage aluminum pot o' coffee brewing, Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" CD playing.
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I had a dream last night: writers should listen to music that arouses emotion in them. Then [sit and think about] why they feel this emotion, and then write about it. Music as a source of inspiration for emotional episodes. I'm not talking major break -downs and -throughs, but just enough music to evoke feelings. Feelings to be explored for memories.
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The other day I thought that, at 38 years old, I have now lived exactly half of my life without my grandmother being alive, and that I don't want to get any older because the thought of living a life more years without my grandmother than with her is too sad a life to live.
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Having no job, days seem shorter. I get up at 9:00ish, have a casual breakfast and eventually take a casual shower. Then I find that it's 2:00 or 3:00pm before I get out of the house after having also done some casual bit of business (phone calls, this n that paperwork, etc). For example, today I got up and had breakfast with Michael. Now it's after 4:00pm! And what have I done? It seems that I have been sitting here writing letters and journal entries. Time has been zipping by at twice its regular speed. This has shocking implications if carried-over thoughout one's lifetime.
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Jazz played 'round midnight has a sultry sound.
Every hour of a rainy day feels 'round midnight.
Every hour of a rainy day feels 'round midnight.
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