sharpen

dry fig leaves chase each other in circles as we walk through the parking lot. nods of the head embody our silent approval of each word that passes between us. a splay tree rearranges itself with each thought we exchange. (our mind - so we can better access topics relevant to the other person faster.)

it's fun versus enjoyment: the spikes of silliness and the steady peaceful happiness that changes over the years. the latter begins to dominate the former. is fun an important thing to maintain? or is enjoyment fine - or better?

--

complacency is the enemy in times of minimal conflict. always strive to do better. but then again there's no need to stress out. this mindset

pensive twirls of the pen in hand, background rain generated from the computer, a void to fill or a chasm to empty - not sure what's happening. need to stay sharp - no, get sharper.

--

'carry your world.'
'sometimes the wire must tense for the note.'
'the wheel breaks the butterfly.'
behold: a faint emotional twist that sharpens your awareness of yourself. we live in an egg designed for us to be ready when it hatches. the whole point is to mature.

--

I wanted closure, but couldn't find any. someone steps out of the shadow and startles me - but it's just law, twig in mouth, blade sheathed in belt. we walk over to ev's where we find her reading a book to background music. 'some search for gold,' she tells us as we step through the door. 'what are you here for?' we say nothing and sit down - just to enjoy each other's company. the cool night air kisses the back of my neck through the window. law sits still with a calm smile as he watches her snap her book shut and raise her eyebrows back. 'others want a dragon to slay,' law says. 'but we don't really - because once we see one, we'd rather it not be there.' we decide to carry our conversation to the woods.

a masked hunter lurks in these woods. law and ev know he could get them, snipe them down with his lethal spear or whatever he throws, but they walk on, knowing they're invincible. because the pen is with them. the writer of the fight.

let the fight come as it may. when law and ev blink in the same moment, a dagger twirls like lighting from bushes far away. I watch as it comes closer, a slow moving metallic piece of art. law sees it - and lets it come. it hits him hard in the chest. but no penetration: the thrower had miscounted his steps. 'you're supposed to throw at an odd number of paces away, sir,' law grins. 'not even.' the dagger is his now, and the hunter is still in hiding, one weapon short. ev does that thing with her eyebrows again to see if law will hunt back. he doesn't. just stashes the blade in his ever growing collection, and we walk on.

'so what dragon are we talking about today?' asks ev. 'the one found in books,' I say, thinking about the billions of stories I'll never get to read. 'the one that builds invisible walls against totalitarianism in the real world by breathing fire through the pages.' law and ev both nod. we reach a cliffside and sit down. the hunter won't bother us here. in fact, he couldn't bother us anywhere.

the moon is above us; the city, below, taking long, long sips of the cool moon. the city, sleeping in its soft glow of lights in the valley, the fog a pillow to the peaceful inhabitants inside. a dragon could have swooped down and perched on a cliff ledge, wrapped its wings around itself for warmth. as I think this, it happens, and ev points and laughs, leans forward to watch the spectacle. law wraps his arm around her and they smile peacefully at the sight. 'maybe there could be a dragon, but no one needs to slay it.' pause. tilt my head upward. wispy clouds stroke the moon. 'suppose so.'

Improv Tips

the key: standards. we go into it with too high expectations of how great our improv should be.

strategy: restrict yourself to only play a few notes, say the notes of the dominant seventh. ex: F, A, C Eb.

improv doesn't have to be complex or fancy - the simple tunes, even using only a few notes, can be impressive without the performer even realizing it.

over time expand your range of notes.

standard jazz notes to improv on ex: Ab, Bb, C, D, Eb, F, G, Ab, Bb...

quick python/django/heroku reminders

heroku run python
heroku run python manage.py <some command>

e.g.

heroku run python manage.py sql polls
heroku run python manage.py syncdb

heroku run python manage.py shell

# shell stuff
d shell
>>> from polls.models import Poll, Choice

arise

the city sleeps

behind a sagging gate
taking cool sips of the moon

(or the official:)

Past a sagging gate
Of stars the city takes long
Sips of the cool moon

--

night has fallen
into itty-bitty pieces
we stoop down
to piece together the sky
the broken cookie of the moon

--

the creamy white light is pasted on the wall next to my bed, partitioned into a poisson distribution by the tilted blinds. soft sky drips through the window to stir me awake. the sky's delicate hum sinks into my still form, a whisper of the day to come.

echoes slip under my bed and bounce about my room; fall through the openings in the sky and dance about the earth.

soft sky drips

through the window

pasting light on the wall

heaven's whispers

sink into my ears

calling

--

hmm, the air has been very still each of these nights. I wonder if there's a storm coming. the sky has been quite a cycle.

capture the uncapturable: what do I do with all these melodies? I'm not sure how to reach an audience, what audience even, and what my message is. if I can finalize my message for the world, the one thing I want to communicate to the world, to help the world - what would this message be?

hearts and halos

the sharp twists of light in the alleyway as we walk with our jackets tightly wrapped around ourselves... it's a sharp flare inside us that churns our hearts' melodies into song, and we feel the emotion pouring out each note, even if we are out of breath and breathe in a vacuum. the universe is too beautiful to turn away from, to join herds of mundanity in supposed "fun"; I feel drawing closer to the restless pursuit, to the tying of my hearts and hands to the halo far, far above: to not be insane, but driven, and so driven that I may dim the lights to hear the silence; shut my eyes to taste the stillness; snipe the lying laughter through the window; climb this tree such that the clouds are but molten rock, and the stars are christmas lights to change the light bulbs for. 

my weaknesses are my ties to gravel.

--

it's time to boil fire, stir guilt and shame into a mixed broth to tear down your throat, squelch the flames of smoke from fire breathing creatures, and snap fingers to the shadows cast on the walls. this time around, it feels like a tennis match, and I have lost the first set; so, we snap back, and hit harder. (a dry mindset, but one to have as I stamp the gravel beneath and march about the dried shrubs.)

--

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth

--

he tightens the straps of his pack
takes a final sip of frivolity
checks that his bottle is filled with solitude
enough to slake any yearning for peace

--

the memories drool out the corner of his mouth
each time he opens to speak
melting to nothing?

our words were like wisps of air, or thin smoke, startling the lungs but never reaching the blood cells. a cheery heart, at least, carried our smiles, however quickly the hope evaporated.

--

"we live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. as our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance."

some people swing from tree to tree at the heart of the island, playing monkey bars with the branches, vines eagerly in hand. the island is a jungle, a playground. others hear the shore, the waves crashing by, and seek the sand between their toes, the water massaging their feet. they build sand castles on the edge, hoping to extend the island, to grow the mystery we were put on; but doesn't the shore occasionally bring a wave that crashes the castles? wipes them clean away?