Minneapolis Sculpture Garden...

I love the city. Any big city. Perhaps this is why I have become such an intermittent urbanite. Although, I have found that I am more appreciative of Minneapolis when I am not running away from it, but rather walking. I recently strolled my way through one of my favorite urban retreats. A mere moment of happy solitude, coffee in hand.

Several aesthetically pleasing installations, some permanent, some like me. Prophecy of the Ancients. This piece is one of my favorites, like I've interrupted someone's dream. Several familiar objects suspended in a mesh metal dome. Don't wake up. I never like being awaken from my dreams. I forced my boots to tip its toes between geese droppings.

Grateful for the geese. For without them I am commonly the odd wheel. I stand alone without a hand to hold. I grasp my coffeeless cup firmly. Surrounded by lovebirds personified. This silent feeling is familiar. I move on.

Hare on Bell. An odd couple, yet they seem to complement one another. A sort of formal elegance. In all my deviance, at least I wore my dress. I'm at a loss for meaningful words here. Nothing new, I suppose. The generous hare says it's time for tea, but it's been spilt by my cumbersome glances. The sun is leaving me, whispering cold goodbyes. I hear the bell ring, but it remains still. Follow me boots, I am not a sculpture. I have nothing to display.

My final glance. This time reciprocated. I love this one. Goddess with the Golden Thighs. Beautiful in all its ugliness. We'll meet again. I love this microcosm. The city is getting cold, and soon it will be contagious...

I dreamt the other night...

We sang the same song.
City streets fell silent.

You held my guitar pick.
I held my breath.

You showed me how to breathe.
I inhaled your words.

Your worn heart on your sleeve.
My stone on your shirt.

We lived in the rain.
The world fell asleep.

Puddles left with rivers.
Washed away our misery.

With each and every drop.
Your soul I could feel.

I strummed your epitaph.
You died in my sleep...

Wine, I wine...

Oh wine... we forgot the iron. My night time vice, in all my self loathing. Always punctual. Irreproachable in the bottle. Sumptuous in the glass. I drink, but the sweetness engulfs me. A temporary paradise. Sooner or later it's gone, an enchanting calamity. I'm gone. The bitterness prevails. Nothing is sweet, so I say so long... Only sporadic revelries. Small doses. Remorse no more... farewell to thee.

Love not Luv...

My Best. I love this girl. Inside, outside, all sides... always, everywhere. Te extrano, pero no para largo... Besos y una flecha a la izquierda tres.

Raw yet Refined...

A stellar experience. One of my final doses of the city, alone, in the company of strangers. I'm strange. It was perfect, a good fix. It was like I stumbled into a field of 4 leaf clovers, but better yet... Doug Martsch playing a live jam session near used boxed sets at a pre-eminent, rad music store. At the Electric Fetus, it was more than just ambient sound, but in every which way electrifying. A guitar, an amp, a couple pedals, a chair, a musical deity, and a pair of new balances.

Doug Martsch, of Built to Spill, told a 4 song story with no words. It was like he jammed with himself by starting out with an initial strum, recording it, and building upon it with complementary musical riffs and solos. The more he delved, the more the story unfolded. Like a bizarre dream on the verge of a nightmare. Layers upon layers of distinct, harmonic sound, but all from his guitar. Like the frets on the fingerboard were his mouse, and he knew photoshop better than its creators. Distorted sound, like a lucid dream. I closed my eyes to heighten my sense of hearing... I didn't want to wake up.

I wanna see it when you find out what comets, stars, and moons are all about... I wanna see their faces turn to backs of heads and slowly get smaller... I wanna see it now...

I'm Tired...

... but it's not anything that can be remedied by a nap. For once I am sick of seeing grey, and it's not due to these past morose days. Although, I could leave the weather at fault for my sulky mood. Everyone blames the weather, everyone. Even if the forecast predicts nice weather, my vision would remain hazy. Right now I plead to see things in black and white. A plea for color would be too greedy. Perhaps I will call in sick to the world for a few days, and revert to my sullen self. How am I expected to hold up these splotch silhouettes, when I myself cannot define them. How? Ok, I will be your crutch, but I have been given a broken pair of wings that I perpetually mend. This time I will use needle and thread instead of duct tape... for you and for me. My mind is indisposed, so now I will pretend to sleep. I'm tired.

Look...

So I am about to embark on something new... Another beginning of an end I want to share with all of you.