It's sunday and this is nostalgia:
and empty entrance into another form of life, something like pouring a glass of water. The glass before, the glass after.
I'm watching the Bears and Saints play and it's a pretty solid game. Snow's coming down and the Bears can't do anything on the ground and the Saints are looking like they should pull away if they don't turn the ball over in the second half, but we'll see about that. If Grossman can pull his shit together, then it'll be another story.
I'm coming to believe that I have too many Ryan Adams albums--this will be my small confession. He's entirely too productive. I guess that's not a fault, but something that sets me a bit green. This could also be reinforced by the fact that he reminds me somewhat of my ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend. Hmm. Embedded truths have a weird way of nudging their way to the surface of one's consciousness. In the middle of complete distraction, you could recognize them and then lose them as readily. It's funny how few things are ever really over.
The itunes library is incrementally growing, currently in alphabetical order and album by album. It's much faster work than it was on that ancient machine I had been running, but still takes a goodly amount of time. There is a stack of books sitting next to me that is just above knee high that I need to pour over and pull poems from, but distractions set themselves about me like pigeons on a wire. And I rarely do anything to scatter them.
How in hell did Berrian come down with that ball? Jesus marimba! The Saints are giving the game away. It's official. It's also good to know that my life is mine again. I don't rightly know when it went away from me, or when I pressed pause, but I'm beginning again to know the glass that started this and what's being poured.
A pearl of wisdom from an old hashed conversation in college with J.B.:
"I feel like life is a glass of that's full of the past. I keep drinking it down."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
"But where does it go? I just keep swallowing and don't know where it goes."
"Well it's in us, I guess."
This is nostalgia: One day we'll all dig together.
For better or worse and whatever the hell that could mean. The glass before, the glass after.