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Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef." 

The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before. 

Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain. 

Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style with my arms open and twirling. I used to twirl a lot when I was a kid. But, I can't dance in the rain because I'm wearing white. But the rain also makes me think of porches and sitting next to someone who likes the rain just as much as I do. I'm not sure who that person is in my memory. Really, I swear. I think maybe when I find that person they'll replace the shadow in my mind. 

Hey, there's a fundraiser at 5 Points Bistro for the fight against AIDS. I should go. And the 17 Ojos  Collective Art show, and the battle of the bands at the Percolator. I hope it's not hot. If it's hot I'll leave. I'll walk out! How do people do it? 

The rain is already pooling in the street. My Ita hated driving in the rain. She would stay where ever she was until it stopped or she wouldn't leave the house. Her car sunk into the street once when it was raining. I think it was a mini-sink hole. She hated the rain almost as much as I love it. 

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