I have way too much written down on papers from here to Florida, notes and pieces of stories, a coupla poems and outraged letters. and there is a continuing bothersome feeling I tend to get when it seems every one around me is playing music or making some kinda artsy thing, a feeling like being only an observer to this lovely world of wonders. I've thought more about how to incorporate the million words in my head into these beautiful coincidal and expressive moments I share with so many others. all I can so far figure is passing off poetic nothings to everyone around, or perhaps decorating the cabin with all the words I can think of by paint and pen and glue. maybe, and this is where I'm heading with this, I may put together a book-ish thing, a cut and paste adventure in self-publishing. all else I can offer is a damn silly smile, and I can only stretch it out so far (but I'm trying).
love, of and on course.
I love way too much, everyone and anything.