in all the gin joints in all the websites in the world... she had to walk into mine

welcome mat.
so here I stand, in 'blog land', that horrible b-word. i'll have to replace it with the more romantic 'journal', which says "drinking pretentious coffee while wistfully looking off into the distance" more than blog does to me. blog. bleh. disclaimers: the lowercase is inspired by art, not the rise of 13-year-old america. sometimes i'm snarky, and may describe myself, others, or inanimate objects as "snarky." if you are unfamiliar with this phrase, think "classy smartass," or perhaps "sassy surliness". my head is a little chaotic, my life is a bit of a magnet for the bizarre. i can't promise any clarity or logic ... ever.

entry 1: of little to no importance.
this weekend i heard from several dear far-away friends, who were in the process of:
braving los angeles traffic, manning the front desk at an upper west side ny art gallery, considering the lifespan of a squid while relaxing at home in canada, boarding a plane to london in the pursuit of love, and considering the joys of vespas in seattle.

grains of sand
saturday night i found myself on the deck of my family's mountain cabin, surrounded by mile-high friends, nursing an avery pale ale and craning my neck to catch a few glimpses of the perseid meteor showers through a sky full of thick n.c. wyeth clouds. every fifteen minutes or so, a tiny white streak would skip across a bare patch of sky, and the inevitable feeling of vast smallness began to set in.
absorbing the energy of stars that may have already super nova-d into the great question mark of space... when combined with alcomahol... does give you a different perspective. eventually, the little white streaks began to resemble little leashes attached to the tiny purse dogs of my far-away friends, my mentors, my ghosts, my memories, my old traveling haunts, my experiences, old epiphanies that i've left in hotel nightstands next to crinkled copies of Gideon's Bible. i began to feel like an ancient powdered central park lady in a chinchilla coat, surrounded by leash after leash of tiny dogs who i had lost count of, but were still there, running in little circles and biting at their wool pea coats. the dog lady metaphor was enjoyable. the sense of confusion was not.

waking bag
the clouds began to clear as i was falling asleep , and as tiny white hyphens filled the night sky, i wondered what elements of my life i was truly connected to. who was i connected to? how connected am i with myself these days? and how fragile are my connections? wiggling deeper into my sleeping bag, my body's thermoregulation failed to turn on, and i began to shiver like a cheesy imitation of a silent film actress.
maybe, just for now, i'm connected to the train tracks with a large rope.
and maybe the connections of hammers hitting the piano strings will optimistically soundtrack my way out of the villain's evil plan and back into the black and white city life again.