September 29th, 2003

grandma ryan

wait a minute mister postman...

I woke this morning/afternoon to find I am slated to receive a letter. I haven't received a real letter in a long time. I'm not sure exactly how long, but regardless, I most closely associate the act of letter writing with my relationship with Jessica oh so long ago. I know at least a few of you must remember this, and were I a less proper man I would remind you in a very certain way. However, I now have this to look forward to, and hopefully it will contain very pleasant things. Hopefully it will do a bit of overshadowing, that I might dissociate unpleasant things from their rather neutral messenger. [crosses-fingers]

Today I finished reading what must have been the first piece of long fiction I've read in close to a year, and I read it in only a few days, so my confidence in reading speed has been a bit boosted. I think it also reminded me that my attention span needs to be redeveloped, and my patience must be continually evolved. It might help lessen my horrible neurotic tendency to over-contemplate.

Also, I need to build my collection of evocative music. I need background pleasantries, I have too much high music (as in high art, not as in music to listen to while high : P ).

Although, on that note, I'm pleased to say that tomorrow night will be 3 weeks. I kind of feel a lot better in some regards, although I do also feel some hesitancy toward an immediate conclusion.

And, ah, my attention span does seem to be fighting back after all.
grandma ryan

(no subject)

carpet yell

Some guess at once, that it is best to be loud,
and so in their choice, they bray great songs
about the edge of the town, topple cans of
garbage, flooding the streets until morning
as sleepy men and women rise to evidence
proving suspicions about their weary night,
blocking the progress of cars as they ramble
onward to work.

Nights like these end with officers of order
climbing out of cruisers with big bright lights
that attempt to combat the great noises
keeping good citizens from their desires
for rest and relaxation. Some end up behind
bars and others disappear into them, losing
the good men. Some will run forever, a number
never do try.

And yet, there are those inside with nostalgia,
respecting the efforts of mules, but sleeping in
hopes that they may drive the road at dawn
to join the force headed into the city where tall
hollow pillars scrape the sky that they might
stand a giant to hold up their offspring, forget
the braves who bray and give hope about the streets
and free the heart once more to seek and peer and
lean as a child might.

But some,
they play dumb,
stay low to the gound
and wait with open ears.

Some are hoping they might let the sleepers sleep,
let the brayers bray, let the players play their part,
as they rest their heads on cement floors, shuffle
their arms around, looking for a simple comfort,
and dream, waiting for the next day, when they might
run into cities, scream out with a silent force, yelling
comfort with the withdrawal of crucial noises, so all
mighty ones see in subtraction that as they ignore the
noises each other throws into passing halves of the day,
they run the risk of forgetting the notes are but parcels,
and soften their music.