I’m at the P&H Cafe in Memphis listening to Zeke Johnson play the blues. He writes songs and tells stories. Plays guitar like a teenager sends a text – casually accurate.
Following him is Rum Rebellion. I’m a fan.
These two artists may never appear on the same stage again. You’re missing a great time.
The main thing is honesty.
When we discuss the American Dream it’s often in terms of what we want to happen – not how we get there. The journey is the point. I’ll end up in the same place no matter what because everywhere is pretty much the same. I’ll be there and that is what makes the place special.
I just hope someone there loves me as much as I love me.
Likely.
Yoga is about stillness. I’m missing the chance to learn from women that understand this far better than I do. I’m staying home because the stillness of today is amazing. I’m alone. I don’t have work today. I don’t have chores. I don’t have responsibility. At least nothing pressing. The list of shoulds in my head could take over if I think too hard. So my yoga practice today is to remain still.
Eventually I’ll need food.
I got distracted and didn’t post yesterday. So as a special treat…
Blue eyes capture me
Honest
Sincere
Clearly wanting what I have
I will give it up
And then move on.
I went out even though I’m depressed. Karaoke is harmless fun and on a Wednesday night there’s little chance it’ll be crowded. My friend came by work just to get me out. How can I refuse that? Continue reading Buck up
One Two Three
Punch
Bowling into memory
Not there
Don’t remember
WHO IS THAT?
Painted whore
Valued as nothing
Given everything
Too common
To Rebel
Too sharp
To Educate
Too female
To consider an equal.
Nesting as the egg
Flying as the chicken.
Ants ranging about
This once fertile table
Deciding between spilt beer
Or not
A civilization
Of scavengers
Dictated
by a woman
What if the queen
Had ambition?
Maybe she just needs
Someone to pine for
An easel to fill
Another trip to the beach
One more glass of wine
By the time you know
The world has moved
And she with it
Thanks for playing.
I’m dedicating my 100th post to the Memphis Punk Festival. I just showed up for the opening show at Murphy’s. The crowd is high energy and ready to go. I’m here early because at 7pm I need to go visit Amurica for the Spillit slam. The theme is music, so I feel like it’s a respectable detour from the festival. Not to mention I can’t wait to tell a story. After that, all music all the time. Or something.
I’m terrified. Of the stage, not the story. I don’t have all my details hammered down but I’ve gone over the idea for almost a month. I just need to go up there and not stumble on my words. I even wore sexy underwear for luck.
The band just started up and everyone came alive. It’s superb metal. I think Spit is playing. I wanted to stay for the Cheerbleeders especially but it doesn’t look like I’ll get the chance. There’s something about scream-singing that comforts me. I want to believe I could find that thick mix of honey and gravel deep down in my own chest but I would probably giggle when I try.
And now I have a crush on the bass player. He looks like a handsome version of my 9th grade boyfriend.
Heads nodding
In approval
Bodies jitter
To the beat
Noise wavesCrashing against
Faces and walls
Excitement mixed
with body odor
and heat.
I find out information
Just by listening
What I do with it
Is the real secret
Without intervention
People are uninteresting
Raised by baby boomers
In cocoons of false praise
Never trusting, always lusting
She wears a tie
That dangles
Between breasts, fully covered
The only thing between me
And that mountain
Of bad decisions
Is a thin film of respect
A pulsating mass
Of unidentifiable guilt
Slouches against my will
Power of integrity