Only a wisp of smoke from the chimney.

Now, to wonder what a home is and what makes it so. I hear it said to be a word, a name, a strong one. And that it is no house, no beam or shingle, that it is life's undress rehearsal. That home is where one starts from. I wonder at the unity of souls which make a home, which warm the walls that house them. It seems a home is built upon humility and humanism, its foundation laid by a future's presence. Not a house. And, see, that one may have a blazing hearth in one's soul.

Old odd ends stolen out of holy writ.

Writing and now reading these stories about figures who move behind the plots graduates in/with intoxication. Long ago with In the Skin of a Lion, right now in The Winter of Our Discontent, and Mr. Ethan Hawkley seems to be guiding his circumstances while they at the same timeevolve of their own accord, the other characters thinking as they do. As the circumstances unfold I keep finding myself with some certain expectation, only to be softened with a grey surprise as the pages flip, then flop. Some character who lets the others create events and atmosphere, spinning their motion by sitting back to watch and wait. There is such a difference to be seen in the same young man sitting in a cafe window, whether simply watching the faceless walkers drifting along the sidewalk outside, or waiting for some one who is not arriving. The same stillness, or perhaps swivelling movements, the same one there.

Whether by uproar, music, or cries for help.

"The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed."

I think about this sentence, and in addition think about it within its contextualizing passages, while writing. I do not have conversations about writing with writers very often, and so am unsure of how others tend to go about. But when I write, I have found that I tend to draw my past in with a slow stroke, with some deep inhalation, and sprinkled unevenly with imagination. Or perhaps not just my past, but any aspect of my real life, present circumstances inarguably included.

So I'm writing an album right now while in the process of recording it. And some of the songs' lyrics are already existant from long ago, where their present circumstances were relevant. Some are of other topics that are relevant as we speak. The two are entirely separate. So what I wish to try, and what I'm finding to be incommunicable, is to convey the notion that all of those words sit in my pockets of history, themselves unchanging. But what those words mean when I sing them have changed. It is difficult to present not simply the changed meaning but that secret process of change to make everything whole.

When men of reason go to bed.

If you're asleep all the time.

Days like these make me think of films or pictures where people go mad from the heat. Shirts are sticking, kids are running around with ice cream cones and hula hoops, dogs are in closed doorways with their tongues hanging out their open mouths. These scenes with, remember, those faded old Coca-Cola signs. Everything is a yellowy pale grey. And I don't like a sweaty brow, but hot skin is something so good you can't just imagine it. Maybe to another it's thought best to stay inside where the air is conditioned for comfort, when outside you can see how your eyes change. It gets so hot you can't touch anyone or anything, so I just stand up on my toes, as if either about to reach for something higher up there, or to step quietly enough to avoid a disturbance.

Some boats that are not steered.

I have been thinking about how strange it is, really, that some of the things people are held responsible for are not ever of their own accord. Our names, our birthplace, our meek bodies that we are gifted with and all of their wavering attributes, are not anything we had to do with. Yet people are looked at by others, and they by still others, with some sense of conviction that is, however it came, mutually understood. I wonder, though, how these roles are assumed, and how a person might shape their characteristics, the things they do have control over, around those attributes that happened to have fallen face up when cast upon the reverent dirt.

All the uses of this world.

Go to http://www.inbflat.net.

There is something about a song as a work of art that takes it beyond any physical types, such as paintings or sculpture, at least in a sense. When a person sings or plays a previously written song they are able to create new meaning from something already existent. This occurs just as easily whether the song is one's own or was written by another. And even if it is sung by the one who wrote it, who did so with a particular meaning in mind, when it is later performed it can have some entirely separate meaning when it again courses through one's body. And it's doing so from something that already exists and was created with a particular meaning attached to its authorship. The same song's elements can exist in many forms. So I like to find the elements I might draw from that website and its song, if I may call it that. I would certainly recommend giving it a try.

And there is something about the way one person breathes, and how its meaning is affected by the breath of those surrounding. The gestures and their implicit, or explicit, meanings that are given by one person may be received in an entirely separate manner from what is intended. And, if received at all, they may then be imitated. The same gestures, but with a removal of primary meaning, refitted with something else that is completely unsuggested by the origin. This is a recurring idea that I have grazed over, but there are deep, misty workings that take place in what people give to one another, much more than the simple gaze.