another february entry.

I listened to Rancid's first album one and a half times before I realized I was hearing songs I had already heard. I think Tim Armstrong sang along to Bollocks one too many times, but Matt Freeman's fingering is absolutely sick. He's probably using a pick, but this doesn't do much to the reality that a bass string is damned hard to play, and this kid can do it.

I don't know the first thing about Green Day, so I don't know who sounds like who, but it's there somewhere.

Now I'm listening to Rancid's second album, peddling time away. I have a lot to do, of course.

Rain washes away the last of the terminal relaxation of our all-too-brief winter's cap. Water on water, rinsing the tarred filth of Philadelphia's record snowfall back into the drains and sewers that the city is built upon. It's back to tight back muscles and strained eye sockets and I haven't even had a chance to stop yet. This was a lot more poetic two hours ago, as I put it together on the walk home. I write better when I'm not actually writing.

Let's hope it's not a constant affliction, because I have a lot of it to get to, tonight, and I'd like some fluidity for once. Last week's bar binge is over and the Christmas drama of Verde and Rojo is wrapped up neatly into a package that (hopefully) stays nestled under the brown boughs of a dry, discarded tree. What a strange analogy. Needless to say, I find it ironic that, while sitting in mi clase de filosofie de amor I considered with some delightful sick feeling whether or not I would be falling in love, only to have that same wondering unreciprocated. Which is fine, I'm more fortunate for it then Rojo, I think, who's in deep, so to speak. If he goes any deeper they'll be mated for life, I think. Someday, I will never meet the amazing children I'm dreadfully certain he's in for.

So we pass over another life lesson gleaned through the watchful eye of whoever has better things in store for me. Every body explains his existence on this planet differently; every body wants to believe that he is where he is when he is for a reason that would inform a greater purpose, if only he could understand it. This is the aching paradox, of course: if he did understand it, would he then choose to be where he needs to be in the first place?

We are the sum of our experiences. I take away a little piece of this one and tuck it neatly into my Puzzle. The picture isn't much clearer of course, but there is a little more color, or some line is more developed. The funny thing, if you find it funny, is that there's no box to look off of, and I won't know what the damned thing looks like until all the pieces are in place, which is to say, when I quit adding pieces, which is to say, when I'm dead, and can look back on it all, if that kind of afterlife is available to me. Because life stops when there are no more pieces. Are you five, twenty-five, one-hundred, one-thousand? Five-thousand?

Three-dimensional? Etc.,...

I'm getting my bearings back. They were stolen for a little while. So, I need to find some new curious pursuit to get my head back in the clouds.

I have so many dreams I need to post. There was one--a semiotic masterpiece, I'd like to say--about Rojo, and what's he's saved me from, or doomed me to. It woke me up in a way that no dream has quite yet, starting, but not afraid. I'll post that soon.