I Walk Between the Raindrops

Language is a brain thing. Speech is a mouth thing, and they find each other compatible. When the mouth is disabled, the brain finds speech good as a hand thing.

I'm listening to Tom Waits today. These days come rarely. His music is intrinsically connected with Kasey in my mind - who I hope is doing well - despite other people with the good sense to like ole Tom. But what I cannot listen to are the two cd's Kasey made for me before I left. I listened to them during my sojourn from New York to Atlanta, but after the jilting I just can't bear it.

I'm a hopeless romantic, too, blankwave, in that I am so incredibly hopefull that there is no hope for me.

My friend Gary (we met on Swappingtons and tho he now lives in Korea have kept up considerably well) wants to email K and ask him for my Douglas Coupland book back. I lent him my copy of Life After God - with my annotations in the margains and all - and I'd like to have it back. No one is emailing him, of course, and I'm sure I get my book back; I just hope it doesn't suck.

I've cleaned my house more recently than I've talked to God and here my apartment is a disaster area. Let us not consider how dishevled my spirit could be.

I vote we refer to this decade as "20-ought 1, 20-ought 2, 20-ought 3, etc.".