Awash

It’s March 6th. Do you know where my children are?

The coffee on my left is all I see. The guitar leaning against my left leg below is all I feel. I like the sound of the birds outside, and the warmth of the New Mexico sun come early this year, telling of a nice spring and a nasty, even deadly summer, given the fire hazards and general intelligence of our Fourth of July enthusiasts.

I like the simplicity of this contract which only seems to have won me over to writing in this style again: I am to put at least three posts up on this site, and my band gets a link. You see how nicely things can go when there are no tickets of elusive value and ominous background to be exchanged in the process. Not that the tickets themselves have anything wrong with them — I’m not going to get into all this right now — but simplicity in contract is a happy phenomenon to my overwhelmed mind.

Self-inflicted piano practice is slow going, but will help me to become the composer some of my so-called mentors seem not to think I’ll ever be. My sentence structure is damaged, but speaks of the state of my mind and thoughts — damaged in a good way for the time being, because the damage is what keeps me thinking simply.

Thinking simply is a luxury from my point of view — a happy, self-indulgent, sometimes dangerous luxury.

Have you ever thought simply of what might happen if the ghetto were to become organized? I’ll save this simple, dangerous thought for a piece of fiction which will be the only fiction I’ve written since my book, “The Ghost of Romanticism.” It’ll be a monologue, I think, spoken by the only surviving main character of the book — Castro Perez.

But this is all the simple thought my luxurious life will allow for the time being — thanks, and good-night.

PS — Hey Ash — it wouldn’t hurt my feelings any if you offered to post the link to my book on this thing for say double the original price (totaling six additional posts here). But don’t feel like you’ve gotta get back to me right away.