Journal #04.15.15

The earth still looks a healthy shade of blue from space. My depression, a healthy blue. All it does is stop me from inane exercises like calculating my taxes. You cannot take nothing from nothing much, without getting much in return. A healthy blue. Meaning I could tap into the wind chimes in the dead of night when even the air begins to shift about, uncomfortably. The grey cat sits like a statue, staring effortlessly at nothing. This town will go nowhere, slow. This is what I like about it. The city of trees. There is only one known city to have so many trees. Paris. How delicious to have both cities in the same breath. What a wealthy contrast. Sacramento is but a small production among the musings of an absinthe drinker in Paris. And I but an understudy to the lead.

KatYa's chemex Peruvian roast

I saw an old friend. We met at a diner for breakfast. It has been about a decade. His beard is turning silver in places. Looks distinguished. All I could do was smile. What memories we conjured together, from Mississippi to Chicago to New Hampshire to Ohio and back. The young and the reckless. He told me how he decided I had gone crazy, when we talked a few years ago. We laughed. I almost laughed myself under the table. I believe listening to the Reds broadcasts in Cincinatti kept him sane all these years. Nothing like my rosy blues. I wished him safe travels down to Santa Cruz, and gave him a copy of my novella in exchange for three albums he cut on CD. Oso Negro. Not sure who got a better deal. Probably both of us. I saw Pete Rose sliding headfirst into second base, without regard to anyone or anything, just pure fire ripping cherry red into royal blues. Fuckin-A! righteous!

Royal-cherry-Blue.