Mazzy Star in my cans at Caffe Reggio. So, Yoko Ono has left the Dakota. I don’t know how she ever stayed. Yet, if my life and my love were hers I might not leave til I were 90, either.
Sometimes inspiration feels like a gas lamp aflame at 2pm on the porch of an old wooden house in New Orleans in the 100º weather. Great, you’re burning. Your flicker makes my world no brighter. Your warmth is rain in my ocean. Still cute, though. You challenge me to appreciate the singular form of what is plural all around.
He said “I’m on a beach and you can’t see me.” I said “I’m on a beach and I can see me.”
On one hand there is zen, neutrality, even avoidance. Numbness. On the other there is flying into JFK. At eye level with the stars, upon first sight of the clusters of golden light below New York gives you visions of everything you’re going to go through for as long as you stay in her this time. It all plays out in your body right then and there. You feel why you have come to her as her song sings to you “beloved, gaze in thine own heart” (The Two Trees).