Licence (the blame sits squarely with luxury on this one, you know what I mean stupid mercedes).
Perchance now you will be satisfied? I should bid you an unfond farewell, tomorrow I'm leaving the state, we all know the year officially ends when I am thrust with jets into the sky. There is, as always, a song spinning in my head, "I'm drunk, I'm tired and I fucked my shit up" but this time I'm not entirely sure that its all my fault.
What I am learning is to become undone, not from myself, not from the power of that internal vortex but from the larger shoving hand of something else. It is possible that I will remain and by that I mean I will walk with words in my head and pens in my hands. This isn't a great trial of me versus all things like volcanoes and canoes and omnipotent everything. I can build rhythms with footsteps. I'll laugh at the dusting off and the dusting off and the standing and falling and breathing. One day, strapped in great pain, I saw faces look down on me with something quite like love.
I have dozed now in both my parents' houses. Sat with my back against cushions, heavy lead dropped my eyelids and listened. I heard who I am with the sounds of peeling potatoes, stacking plates, kitchen chatter and clatter and the stepped in parts of other lives. I'm weaving something over here, if you look closely at only one part it is lumpen with errors but when I stretch out my arms and hold it aloft the dropped stitches let in the light. And that right there was the moment in which I allowed myself to be twee. I'm planning on dropping a lot more stitches 2008, you better brief 2009 cause there's no separating Dale from Slamma.