Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

Or extroverted antisocial half-assed lesbians with delusions of literary grandeur either.

Most of my days are like chalk sketches on a busy sidewalk, insignificant and worn away by the tread of many feet. I live a decent enough life, but not much happens that is of great value to me. I sleep I wake I laugh I cry, over and over, until it all blurs together, after all it’s only life. Then comes a piece of time that I can snatch out of the jaws of inconsequence. A moment, an hour, a day, an afternoon. An otherwise insignificant singularity that means something to me.

Last night I was with my family at the beach house as usual. They decided to opt out of the ocean view and instead sat out facing the road and the setting sun. A couple of hours into the evening I decided to sneak off for a smoke break. As a friend would say, open scene.

The beach was dark; the surrounding houses oddly abandoned for the weekend. The wind kept tugging on me insistently and the waves were making their presence felt, dashing themselves on the sand with wild abandon. Not the most idyllic setting but lovely nonetheless. Still I could see why people wanting a more… tranquil weekend would choose to be elsewhere. I walked past a couple of properties before finding an alcove in one property’s unforgiving wall, some concrete steps leading from the sand to the gate. I laid back onto the damp chill stone as the water churned before me. Jeff Buckley crooned his sorrow into my ear as I held the cigarette to my lips and drew my first smoke-filled breath of the evening. Bliss.

In other news, does anyone else want to edit artistically shot dimly lit non-porn sex scenes to certain songs? I was listening to Esthero’s I Drive Alone in the car and I just couldn’t. Get. It. Out. Of. My head. Face to face, mouths parted lips nearly touching but not quite there. Cut. Mouth skimming across jaw line, down neck, resting on collarbone. Cut. Hand making its way down inner thigh. Cut. Head tilted back neck arched as mouth is put to breast. Slow, fast, then slow again. Hands, jaws, mostly profiles, always coming back to the mouth. So. Just me then?

Soon, a morning on beach cleanup duty and an afternoon reconnecting with a friend while constantly forgetting to use my indoor voice.

What I’m Listening to Right Now: Ravel’s Bolero – Herbert Von Karajan at the Berliner Philharmonie