gigondas

It's been a good day. Cold, wet and rainy, a good December day. Read Bukowski and listened to The Stage Names and felt sweetly sad and laid pondering in the bath, soaking and feeling like the week was over and I was damn glad about that and the rain splattering on the window near my head. A good hot bath.

I watched a different version of this song and was reminded of how much I love this guy's fucking gorgeous crooner voice. Yes.


Indeed.

I feel a bit clearer now. The depression has peaked. I feel a bit foolish. I can be an ass when I drink. Which is all the time.



I had and lost an arch-enemy. All in a week and I lost it, all that whatever it could have been, and it only took one conversation, one, and that makes me think, well it coulda but not now it won't, so, remember the lines of Jim White's: "I remember quite clearly, a bad Muzak version of James Taylor's big hit, called "Fire and Rain" was playing as you crouched down and tearfully kissed me, and I thought, "Damn, what good fiction I will mold from this terrible pain." It's not terrible pain but it is feeding the art. Good. Good.

I started God Bless You, Mr.Rosewater. Umm, the first page is good. Has that bubbly, goofy intelligence of his on display.

I typed "his" because I can't remember his name.