Ian Anderson 8 a.m., July 4
- Community Blog
She Sways I smoked the days last cigarette adjoined by the crisp night air. Amidst the sounds of rushing waves to the shore. The sea sways. One great rhythm she plays. Pulse of the sea at the end of the day. The wind in the air. I stood there bemused as always. Thinking alone side a casually busy street off the coast. Wondering and doubting mostly. Inner quarrels of this and that but nothing short of disposable. In my leather jacket strut all mixed up in my Japanese disguise. I realized how I live on the beach yet never see it. Or hear its calls. Calls of rushing anger and violent tides Mood swings of sea gulls and desperate calms. So i listened. For a cigarettes worth of time. All the while thinking of the great many things I have still yet to do. Today and tonight, in my sleep, through the night. The over anxious, ever lucent, ADHD has destroyed my inhibition to procrastinate on nothing more than the word itself. Then I thought about alone. How Its nice to have someone to talk to. Then not really at the same time. Not really nice at all. But nice all the same.
I thought of my dear grandma and how she is someone I can relate to. Classy and old. Frail and demented into old customs and traditional behavior. With attitudes built upon morals no longer shared by common society. Not anymore at least. Or just best put I believe us very old fashioned. As much as i'd like to consider myself as eloquent or well mannered, which is the equivalent of some strange unknown flamboyancy these days. An alien like demeanor of seemingly uncomfortable reminder of maybe what once was, that takes people the wrong way.
These things are here and there. I missed my grandma much and felt deep emotion thinking how she has little time left. How we all have but few moments left together on this giant rock spinning through space, making up time. Entertaining God.
We all have so little time left. The gift of life. It lasts forever if you so choose to have it go on forever. This world is but a taste. A prison really, holding my energy within. What true life is. With god the creator of all things. Maker of light. I wonder what song he sings. Songs of ebony silk screens and tropic thunder with a warm breeze. Probably. And all the while I type, within my studio trash pile.
Thinking of things fleeting on the backs of meanings that mean no things.