when a child is born,

when a child is born, the spirit of the mother spreads out endlessly and scatters itself all over the world. a million, trillion fingers crashing through sky like the wings of giant birds. paper thin. it becomes one with all things and exists everywhere at the same time. it is omniscient and omnipresent in the aftermath of new life. sometimes, the spirit itself goes out in fragments to visit those whom it has known and loved.

and so it is in death.

again, the spirit explodes out into the universe and touches gently the bodies it will miss. it twists and turns heading off into the abyss of eternity, wherever it is that we continue to live in death. an old man, lying in a bed decides that it is time to leave. he is but skin and bone, white hair and bright eyes. smiling. i wonder so many things. and oh, he will be missed. if you listen closely enough, reach out your hands, and breathe, maybe you too will feel the magnitude of a great and beautiful man drifting off into forever.

Eugene Jefferson Copeland [1915-2002] i thank you as only i can.

i want so badly, to

i want so badly, to learn how to dance the tango. there is a scene in Frida, that i believe is one of my favorite scenes in film. it is still seducing me today. it will not relent.

sometimes, you walk to the

sometimes, you walk to the movie by yourself at night, and the man at the theater lets you in for free because the computer is broken. you thank him. your day has been filled with the neverending chaos of your financial woes. the air is cold, and you wish you had worn your hat. full moon casting its pale glow on quiet city streets. you wish it were raining. the film about Frida Kahlo makes you feel sad. her life, wrought with such pain and anguish, reminds you of being sick as a child. how such things never really leave the consciousness and drift downstream; rather they stay and pool up, causing you to wade through their murky waters from time to time. and it made you sad as it magnifies the knife of solitude. how fucking lonely it can be inside of your art. you walk home slowly smelling the brisk air. the onset of dew. sleep.

as the weeks blur together,

as the weeks blur together, the relentless wonder of life rains down upon me. the trees in tilden park, imperceptibly lush and full...layered in green. some of the leaves have left, and bare bones huddle amongst those shrouded in what seem to be a million colors. a week past i saw vicente amigo [www.vicente-amigo.com] play. it is beyond words. not since the last time i saw him play, have i seen such a closeness between a human and their instrument. i cried as he began the first piece. immediately transported back to sevilla with my broken jaw. how absolutely priceless our memories. last night we played a jeff buckley tribute in san francisco. it was perfect. tonight i will get into my bed. read. drink tea. sleep. dream. i am sleepy. i feel a new momentum. one that has wings.

and the last few minutes

and the last few minutes of halloween fall upon me. their icy thin fingers sending thoughts of times past to spine. spent my day with ben, passing out cds, eating lunch, telling stories. i am tired now, but i am not tired. i am sad. depressed. nostalgic. for some reason, halloween seems to bring the lost breath of sadness to my soul. not sure why. i remember exactly what i was doing, at exactly this time last year. i will not tell you though, for it makes me feel ever more saddened. lonely. the candle in my pumpkin, is throwing light to wall. sigur ros again. might they carry me off on the giant wings of their beauty. i don't want to hurt anyone's feelings ever again. nor my own. the world is vast and tireless, but i am simply a man. a man alone in a room with light. music. superscratcher. +