leftovers
it’s cold out tonight. I felt it. just walked in, and it’s cold by Virginia standards.
I’m looking for something to write about; I’m sitting here with the blog up, feeling the desire to record something. I want to, like I could say something burning, or dark and deep tonight, but I’m shot in the foot before I get off the porch: I’ve got nothing to write about in particular. there’s no great story, or even great set-up, buzzing about my head right now.
so what’s going on? I’m still burning through that lasagna. that’s nice. I did right by it. matter of fact, I’ve got it in the oven as we speak, reheating. me and the half tray of lasagna? we’re gonna have a moment in five. I can smell it now. hell yes.
and what else. I checked a handful of books out of the library the other day, and got a couple of albums, too. for those of you dirtbags who don’t frequent your local public library, most of them now have decent multimedia sections to them. so, among other things I rented, I picked up a book on the Napoleonic Wars, another on a guy who was supposedly the influence for Rudyard Kipling’s ‘The Man who would be King’, and an an recording of Modest Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’.
I don’t pretend to understand classical piano music, but I’d like to start playing again, and this ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ is pretty, and I think I could play it with a bit of practice.
and what else, still:
I’m 25.
that doesn’t look old until it’s written in front of you, and I don’t feel any pulls, dragging me out the door, but goddamn do I need to do something soon. and I’m not even meaning professionally, but anything. because I feel like I’m getting stagnant, and I’d rather burn up quickly than just get stale.
my my, hey hey.
