Winter's Bitter Love Affair

...Just listened to Martha Reeves and the Vandella's "Nowhere to Run"

I'm laughing to myself. There's really nowhere to run. From the look of things, I'll be accompanied by a good book or two, plethora of black tea, and a great music selection. The snow keeps coming down, but it won't bring down my spirits, too. The snow brings forth a certain sadness, but it could just be me. It's somewhat of a romantic madness. The snow, no? I'll kick around in it later.

What's on deck via Media Player:

1. Someone To Watch Over Me -Frank Sinatra
2. Is It Really So Strange -The Smiths
3. Old Before I Die -Robbie Williams
4. Times Like These -Jack Johnson
5. Dance Me To The End Of Love -Madeleine Peyroux


It'll be easy, like Sunday morning. Right, Commodores? Ah, that's number 6.

I'm a bit lackadaisical this cold morning.

However, I make for good company.

I was working on something here on Leezuhhl's blogspot, but I think I'll take this time to enjoy the black tea and pound cake. It's on songs that just take you to other levels of personal depth. (Whether or not on purpose. Depending on how great the lyrics are.)

Though I enjoy writing, and communicating at best my irrational notions on life, there are moments I should just shut the hell up. And just listen to the damn song.

Enjoy the moment. Even if it's by yourself.

Unerring Deliberations

Henry Thoreau once wrote, "It is not what you look at, but what you see."

I wonder if he kept in mind biased individuals.

I can't blame myself for who I am. I can only do what I do best, which is be me.

Laugh. Cry. Feel. No, they are not the same.

It's the pain we all run and fear.

Whether or not you think you know someone, the chances are greater you truly do not.

Might as well snicker at those who choose to pick off layers they've assigned you.

We waste too much time nit picking at the triviality of things.

Embrace fear. Embrace chance. Embrace the impossible. Embrace this.

The significance of a moment, a person, a laugh. It's all the same.

I've often wondered why I set the clock half hour ahead.

In fact, I know there's a somewhat rational motive, but here I am illogically living in the past.

The people I could have seen, the places I could have been...

Playing around with iambic pentameter, and fucking up rhythmic variations.

Hell, John Milton did it in Paradise Lost.

(Shuddering) Who in the hell reads Paradise Lost??

Where are the coteries of British author enthusiasts?

Shall I cease the search for the literati?

Are there membership fees? I don't remember my password.

Have I gone mad? Simply put: I've too many distractions. All to hide from myself.

Wickedly unaware. Has ennui found refuge in my pen?

To write a squib or not to write a squib. That's my choice.

Yes, that sums it up.

Is this the beginning of an ineffable fate?

Have the bloggers gone into a state of stolidness?

Bugger off.

I've never left.

There's much adulation for the arts these days.

Fat Pig?

City Paper. DCist. The Post.

Chagrin. Zip code doesn't match circulation of above.

I've never left.

Amid the distractions, come a solemn bravado.

Yes, that's more like it.