(no subject)

Listening to Bright Eyes on my second to last day
in this office, I've still half an hour left to my
lunch and I don't feel like sitting outside smoking
endless cigarettes. For once.

This is the perfect CD to listen to on days like
this. It's misty out, all grey and wet and half way
to raining. And the music soothes my weary, yammering
little brain. It reminds of the Commander, if he
was from Nebraska, that is. The same jangling,
painful qualities. Not painful in the way that it's
physical painful to listen to, like to your ears.
But, painful in the fact that this boy's voice
coule quite possibly rip your heart into a billion
tiny pieces if you allow it. The Commander is
the same way. I remember him playing me the most
beautiful songs. And being so very proud that it
was my friend, someone who I knew extremely well,
who had this talent to puppet the heart and mind
with simple words and guitar chords. I still feel
that way, even though I almost never see him anymore
and can't remember the last time he and I sat down
together with his guitar and a bottle of Jack.

We always said that we wanted to be Tom Waits, or
to have him as our father. I remember when he bought
the Beautiful Maladies songbook. And our plan was
to take that, a stool, a bottle of bourbon, and
a carton of Lucky Strikes. We'd sing the songs,
drink the bourbon, smoke the cigarettes, and
fall off the stool. All in the same great, grandious
manner of Mr. Waits.

I miss those conversations. I miss hanging out with
him. But, I don't really see myself moving to NYC,
which would be the only way he and I could hang out
with any regularity ever again.

It's the same with me missing Thee Pumpkin Girl and
our chirping, chittering secret language that always
left everyone shaking their heads in bemused
puzzlement. I miss her. I miss her smiling at me.

This rain is putting a melancholy in my breath.