secret motel

I ordered my new turntable this morning. It's the exact same model I'm replacing. I guess I can keep the old one around for spare parts. Or I can use it to build a dream machine like Burroughs and Brion Gysin used to experiment with. It all depends on the shapes and patterns you build to surround yourself. Some people get stuck in the shapes and patterns they create. I forget and drink wine with the sunrise. Because I can't be in Norway for fresh coffee. The way the sea splits me in half. A part of me never got off the Cessna my father is still flying in the sunset of his remaining years. The breakfast we had on the other side of glass while rain beat the parking lot. I drink coffee and try not to express myself too forcefully. I don't want anyone to know what I thought about while walking up Fillmore. The million deaths I die just trying to park the rental car. The closed church on the next block never experienced such glory and devotion while it was open. To me it's just a landmark. While I'm staggering across the city, trying to find my way back to secret motel. And, oh yeah, there's that church tower on the hill. And hope no one tries to shoot me on my way home. Or run me over in the street. This is such a small, quiet existence. I'm not a threat to any of the billions of particles outside my head. I'm drinking wine for better sleep. I had another birthday last week. I don't know what I am anymore. Or what I surrendered to the passing years. As the older parts of ourselves die, something new is born. That's the thing: trying to recognize and appreciate that new thing we become. Whatever I become, I hope I don't transcend vinyl records played late at night and tiptoeing towards headaches, getting close enough to feel their pulse but not close enough to wake them.