throw a little more love my way, baby.
singing and swaying and softly speaking.
spontaneous, triumphant returns.
running down hallways wearing only tennis shoes and swinging chainsaws maniacally.
tiny dancer chorus revivals in busses with bruised egos and bad acid trips.
wanting to be the girl with the vaccuum, if only for the czech.
stories about the circus.
letting go a little bit more in a rainstorm.
mr. bojangles; or, little.
growing in to my love letters.
wanting to write a screenplay, live by the green rules, dance more loudly on streetcorners.
vintage bachelor party bonanzas with megs.
i have been in a very strange place all summer long. not like last year, which was just a whirwind, a maelstrom; one of those anecdotes you try to explain and never can because no matter how hard you try to verbalize it, you just had to be in it to understand. not like that. it hasn't been all that i've needed it to be, but i have high expectations. and it was a transition. the last one, besides all that. (not meaning for life, just in terms of this identity, because after this, it all goes out the window, and i'm somewhere else without even blinking an eye.) if anything, my dissatisfaction has made me recognize more of what i need to do to make it all worthwhile.
advice from mediocre madison in the summertime:
don't waste daylight. appreciate cold showers. wine goes well with everything. naps are necessary, as well as a little soul. journey can explain a lot of things; so can ani. keeping up with the jones' is hardwork. porch sitting alley cats exist outside of san francisco. thunder in the nighttime makes for interesting illumination. don't live too far into the future. keep your eyes level with the horizon. time in one place gets shorter - revel. being honest is never a bad thing, even when it looks messy on the outside. sometimes people take chances you don't expect, and then you have to take a chance on them. bartenders don't have to be nice, but the good ones always are. driving faster only helps for so long. eyes are tricky. jacques cousteau is one of my trump cards. and living inside a glass bell only feels like a menagerie if you acknowledge the onlookers on the outside.