Day Eight - thoughts with Norah

In the background Norah Jones begs me to go away with her…I sit heavy in my arm chair, like my grandfather before me. He died of prostate cancer. In pain.

She’s cute, Norah, soft-porn-country-jazz, but it’ll do.
“…come away with me…” well, Norah, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it does sound appealing…

I am rereading, yet another list, this time of possibly-possible-possibilities, “if the show would be tomorrow” (I’ll refrain from identifying the quote)
…acacophonyof8namessquashedtogetherinmanydifferentwayswhichinturn
meansanothercacophonyofgesturesandemotionswhichinturn…I lost my train of thoughts…

it’s all so “sketchy” (I’ve always wanted to use that word and am fully aware that it is “in”)

…yes, Norah, I’m coming darling, hold up a minute…

A punch just flew at me. I saw it. It connected hard. Did it see me?

My grandfather was a proud man, a military man. He did not believe in parallelism:
“Either you ride with us or you collide with us.”

Mustangs don’t want to be tamed, but cowboys need to get off somehow…wear them down! Dig your spurs into their ribs! Watch them froth at the mouth! Push them to the limit and break them in! Yeehaw!!!

(another punch/another shooting star)

The mustang has been domesticated! Yeehaw!!!...now pull my carriage, lazy-ass bitch!

My grandfather was a hard working man and he sat in this very armchair, sometimes, collecting his thoughts.

Norah stopped singing. I hope she is still there and only decided to wait in silence. I pick up the CD cover and look at her lips. Snapshots of this past week flash before my eyes (and Norah’s). I gather my lost gaze to write the following:

“A kiss may not be the truth, but it is what we would wish it were true.”
Steve Martin, “L.A. story”