Something About The Rain…

It’s there, letting my soul stand on the outside. I have more courage, more relaxation, and more happiness when it’s raining. I’m something, I’m shouting, I’m quiet, I’m safe and contained.

Today I hope it stays what those other, shadow-loving people call “gloomy”, or “overcast”, or “dark”, or “ugh”. For me it’s crow weather, it’s walking weather, it’s the perfect day to meet a friend and not feel too nervous. The rain is confidence.

The rain is self-sufficiency, and growth. It’s open to change, but not pushing too hard. It’s constant, and full, and overflowing, but not angrily (maybe, sometimes). The rain is what I feel like on the inside. The rain is my heart …

Between drops, that’s peace. The subtle coolness, the need for more skins; the time, just waiting, between this drop — and that drop — and this drop, again. Time is built from this beat, drumming, drumming, pointing, whispering. Rain!


I worked, making my hands dusty. A fly kept buzzing, intermittently, providing an apt distraction once in a while. I would roll up any nearby piece of paper (I used a copy of my life insurance), and move threateningly towards it. It would buzz, and fly, and not land, and then I would lose sight of it against a mottled background and it would shut up for another five minutes.

Every time I sit down at the computer I feel inexplicably comfortable; at home. At the same time, I’m a little disgusted. It’s not like a fireside, or a boat on the water; it’s a little too comfortable, too easy to use, too bright.

I’ve started seeing random flashes in my vision when I close my eyes, occasionally. I think it has to be with the long, long hours spent on the computer this year.

Maybe it’s all a part of modern life. I don’t mind working; in fact, I quite enjoy it. It’s something to do, a kind of flexing of my mental muscles, a little challenge and a little reward here and there. I don’t have so many things to do to fill up the time, anyhow, so I might as well specialize in something.

Sirens, and the sound of the skytrain, and occasional beeps from the fridge. Birds cooing outside of my basement window, acting funny. Trying to stand up the motorcycle with my arms.

These are little moments, where sun catches me for a second, and I see my dusty hands with gladness.

Walking, Whispering

Was it that we were walking
side by side
talking lightly, occasionally laughing?

What was the point?
I suppose that, many years from this place,
if I am an old man singing,
with bushy eyebrows and scattered wrinkles,
I will recall
the kind of young man I am:
smooth skin, soft hands,

So if I breathe now, and now again, (and now, again)
softly, slowly, I am transported, cloudlike
and I am neither here, nor
in a place far from here;
I’m human, and therefore
ever travelling.

I’m human, and therefore
ever aging.
This one tiny life — what a joke! What a trick!
What year it is hardly matters, what year I am hardly matters;
my eyes yet see,
and my heart yet beats.
Isn’t that enough, for tonight?
Isn’t it enough, that you’re
warm, and quiet, and alive
in my bed?

Let’s walk a little more, in the dark,
before our paths are separated
and let’s touch fingertips,
once more, once more, (and once more)
almost like children,

Why I’m Not Writing Music

Today, I realized why my music isn’t flowing very easily as of late. It’s because my life is entirely too peaceful, enjoyable, stable, and simple for the violent, painful thing that is creation. As my life has gone from a spiky graph to a gradual one, my inspiration has checked out. Learning that my life is working is very tragic news.

I don’t wish to be upset. In some abstract way, I like challenging myself and my fears; of course, when I arrive to the moment, it becomes a pretty big and unnecessary pain in the ass. Today, going out into an unfamiliar environment (a party), I felt some of that electric dancing in my head, that restlessness; leaving, I felt those old familiar ghosts, whispering about how I’m a failure.

Naturally, in moments of crises, humans need outlets. For me, that’s writing – even music, sometimes, if I’m lucky. I don’t write out of pure fun, or dalliance; I write out of need. I write because otherwise my heart would explode and no one would understand how it happened. At least, this way, there’s evidence; a paper trail.

I felt that tornado, and felt myself going towards it. My sedation over the past six months has been fairly successful, and I occasionally wonder about my older life. Maybe I came close to going insane, for a while, there; maybe I have no fucking idea what I’m doing with myself. Maybe I’m picking a small goal, then another small goal, and in the end, my life becomes nothing more than reams of to-do list and tiny little accomplishments.

Is life anything else? Isn’t it some big, grand epic?

I hardly even liked noticing Spring was here, today. It just made my eyes water. At least, in the bargain, I am allotted some ink to spill in return for my tears.