What I Wrote To A Cute Boy On OKcupid.com

i promise, i'm not nearly as elegant or well-composed in real life. i'm an emotional, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-as-long-as-i-think-i'm--in-control-of-the-trip kind of person. i'm great with spur-of-the-moment picnics, friday-night-art-strolls, pick-up-and-move-across-the-country-because-there's-a-gig kind of vibratory living, but i'm lost and unsure as the next in unfamiliar territory. i write well, but i'm not good at putting down solid roots (crazy geminis, right? flighty as bats out of hell!). i get drunk with people i trust (and forsake capitalization when i am so hammered) and i live my life probably too invested in miniscule moments. 

i care too deeply about spelling rules, but there's no need to be intimidated, (i don't know your name!) Friend: i'm as wonderfully lost and happy and unfinished as the next soul. 

i spend the summer with fireflies and the atlantic tide. i make good music and bad jugdements. trust me, i'm as human and unintimidating and blessedly-beautifully flawed as anyone! 

Before I became a "real" musician, I painted. Oils. I 'd become too excited about the application, eschewed the distance of a brush, preferring the immediacy of putting paint to canvas with my fingers. Sometimes, I worried chemicals from the paint and turps might soak too deeply into my fingers, but when I imagined the hues seeping into my skin like tattoos, the worry went away: I had all the colors inside my fingertips. I think of that sort of image sometimes when I'm practicing -- I hope my color-drenched fingers make vibrantly shaded songs. 

heartbeats

when life is just too big and too beautiful and too full of every.thing that all you can do is breathe and weep for wonder.

this is the way i feel things: kind of like the immensity will make my skin shatter if things get much more immense. mahler's 'resurrection' symphony. rothko's tryptich. beethoven's final three sonatas for piano and late string quartets. mountains and caves and trees. spiders' webs. constellations. neruda's sonnets. all good things declare the world, with all its ugliness, still creates and revels in beauty, right?