Saturday night. Train whistle. Leaves tracked in the house. I leave them alone because they represent joy even as they represent leaving.
I wonder what they will remember of this Saturday afternoon? Will yellow represent joy?
Tonight there's work related work that must be done, there's other business that must be done, and my art, my voice wants out. My horn is still in the case from the trip to Syracuse. I can sing and not bother the neighbors at 8:32 PM. I can play ukulele, ditto. The horn will bother everyone, the neighbors, and especially those who expect girls or Indians to play flutes.
I've been thinking too much again. It's not thinking per se that's dangerous. Analyzation is a necessary process for coherence. When it hogs 90% of the field of sense, then nothing's left for dreaming or singing.
To make poetry or music you must give yourself over to the unknown, the mysterious, and be willing to enter compelling territory. You must be willing to be foolish, and concurrently create forms to hold the shimmer you carry back from those realms.
I've played it too close to safe lately. Just treading in place to complete all the tasks, all the need to be dones. This is no way to live. Means I'll have to change my state of mind about it all. Make it all art.