And then. . .

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this

there is a possibility that i will avoid my work all day.          a possibility that i will avoid texts and phone calls today a possibility that i won't be able to hold out and end up at dinner, or a movie, or .....    there is a possibility that i have writers block and that's why i'm avoiding my work  it's possible that i am stir crazy and i will be found under a pile of clean laundry there is a possibility that a conversation will never take place even though the words are ready to spill        it's possible that after next week i will be able to breath easy there is a possibility that my dreams have a meaning but i'm too dense to see it   its a definite possibility that i'm avoiding things by writing this blog a possibility that i don' know what tomorrow will bring            there is a possibility that plans fall through        possibilities that all possibilities will shift and evolve...  

1. holidays will never cause me as much stress as they used too 2. pride sometimes gets in the way 3. i need to use december to write new material...well after a few days off 4. sometimes you realize too late that you're in over your head 5. the best conversations are the ones you have while the sun is breaking through a dark sky 6. its hard to find people that love you no matter what 7. if you think you have things figured out, you don't 8. controlling the uncontrollable is just a way to drive yourself crazy. repeat. 9. there something about the smell of rain it seems to wash away all of life's messiness 10. friends, dinner, drinks, conversation

   The security of a moment should always be appreciated simply because that security can be fleeting.     Se-cu-rity is defined as: Definition of  SECURITY 1 :  the quality or state of being  secure : as a   :  freedom from danger  :   safety b   :  freedom from fear or anxiety I believe an amendment should be made to the definition and to highlight the fact that security is in fact fleeting. There is nothing in our lives that is completely secure and the constant shifting, evolving, eroding, ensures that. The idea that life had a level of stability is a veiled attempt to put people at ease. An ease that lulls them into a state of comfort then into a state of shock when changes occurs. They have existential crises and ponder if everything that they done up to now is truly what they wanted  or ponder if the road they already on is the road they want to remain on. The cliche fork in the road. Terms such as those themselves are made up to make change seem good, acceptable,

The paint was thick and still damp. I didn't need to touch it to know this. All over the concrete floor were splashes of paint and dirty white clothes where wet canvases leaned against the walls of the open space. In the corner sheets were rumpled in a bed he lay sleeping on, tangled. Dark hair rumpled against his pale face, arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to block out the light. I walked back carefully not to make noise and lay down next to him, covering myself with the corner of the dark sheet he'd left available.  I reached out to move the tousled hair from his face only to feel the the grip of his hand as he pulled me closer. I was somewhere in a moment as I felt long fingers and firm calloused hands against naked skin.To love an artist is to be in a constant state of unknowing. unbeing, but still somewhere. Hands held firm against you, even when they themselves, the fingers, the lines along the palm aren't sure why they're there. Even when skin tingles an