Tom Waits

I'm a wobbly girl. Inside I make the noise of popcorn and bells. I would like to put some glitter in a bindle and set off down a country road next to cornfields on an overcast day. My boots would be quilted inside with pinks and reds. My hair would be long and swept up in a messy way under a bandana.

Along comes a horse-drawn circus. Melancholy clowns with skinny dogs walk next to the carriages. Paint is flaking off the wooden siding. A dancing girl braces herself inside the moving dressing room. She tries to steady the mirrors and steady her drink. It's very hot inside there. Someone plays an accordion. Why is there a theremin? There in lies the theremin. Screaming ladies are released from the lurid box. The makeup is melting. The elephants need water. If they had tears...

The monkey is not so shy. In fact, he's a bit perverted. He's brought me some lemonade. Thank you.

Seeing Tom Waits was amazing. It is an experience that unrolls further daily.

Hangover

1.	the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.

2.	something remaining behind from a former period or state of affairs.

3.

any aftermath of or lingering effect from a distressing experience: the post-Watergate hangover in Washington. It's been a long time (thankfully) since I've had a hangover from alcohol, but that doesn't mean that I don't get them. I used to think they were "contact hangovers," but it's just that I've caused a great disturbance in my body. I get them after a day in the sun, a night in a smoky bar, or a period of extreme physical exertion. I danced a lot in 80 degree humidity last night, and I am a bit useless at the moment. Hangovers often follow fun. I guess it's the payoff. When I was 14 I had my first "realization." Not, of course, my first real thought, but the first thought I felt was "philosophical." The route to happiness or satisfaction is to achieve balance in all things. To parallel the scales. To equally distribute the pills. To gracefully walk on beams. I think of myself as a somewhat graceless person. I've been called dainty and classy (not sure about this one!), but I've never appeared graceful--to myself or anyone else that I know of. When I find something I like I don't usually want to moderate my experience of it. If something feels, sounds, looks, tastes, or smells good, I want to continue. Which brings me to food, which I seem to be obsessed with if you look back through my posts. I like bread and butter. Good, fresh bread and gourmet (sweet cream?) butter. When I go to fancy restaurants I am always the piglet who asks for more bread. I think I would be happy eating good bread, butter, fresh mozzarella, and fresh tomatoes every day. And many berries. I had this vision about 15 years ago in which I got to sleep on a giant piece of fresh-baked wheat bread. It was soft and warm and my body left deep impressions in it. I felt safe and pampered. Bread and butter. A clear head. A cool breeze. Moving water. Generous roses. My nose pressed against my lover's neck. There are many things that fill me with delight.