Thinking of Love
I’m listening to Bill Frisell, drinking orange tea. I’m making my life go round.
There’s a wrapper of some sort of cheese on my table, stack of blank white notecards, yellow post its, somehow these things hold the keys to my success, as I sit and listen to Bill Frisell.
I dream and I dream and I dream, of what it would be like. What it would be like, to have made it in the world of flying things, home cooked meals, happy endings.
I wonder when or how or ever the secrets to success become known to me. I wonder how life unfolds, time unfolds, maybe how destiny unfolds. I realize, when I push the buttons. When I play the notes, accept my life as it is, it all comes to me.
That’s all I can think of. The secrets to success are the nice music, the cheese wrapper, the blank note cards. Somehow this moment seems ordained, like some higher power blessed me so I can set my intent in the right direction. Right it is, futile and present.
There is nothing more perfect that the moment. And I catch myself in this train of thought. Perhaps perfection is an illusion, an embrace of escape, a lonely quest to forget who you really are, forget about looking at yourself straight in the face. Perhaps it is an excuse all along, from the one thing that you can ever really come to know, your self.
I know struggles are hard, but I also know I chose it.
And Frisell plays on. I think of movies that children watch. I think of jet planes taking ambitious leaders on to change this world as we know it. I think of flying.
I think of friends, and I think of lovers. I think of cherishing today, like we did last night.
I think of hot meals prepared by the stove. I don’t want much more. I have it all now.
To make love is to dance in the stars. This is not to be approached casually.
Ah, orange tea and jazz music, salty cheese, bring me to a moment of reflection, a moment of deserved quiet peace. This, I call home.
Thinking of love.