i played last night, stoned off of my ass, and all of this music came out, all of these chords made sense, it was like my fingers knew the way, they were interpreting the oscilations of my paranoid and permeable (i don't want to say heart or soul, but what else is there?) soul. today, all of it stuck, and i am still writing, this time about my father and how it felt to watch him tuck in his youngest daughter before bed and kiss her goodnight. i don't want to sound bitter, but so what if i am? i need to bleed, even if no one else hears it, although they will. i am bringing my new material to India's tomorrow night.
it should be fun. all of these artists (mostly older than i am) and their creations, like a big pot-luck show-and-tell kind of a thing. i want some feedback, but not a lot. i am going to be quiet and absorbant tomorrow, the way i have felt for the last month or so (even if i haven't seemed it).
older women are strange to me, i sort of relinquish all of mysels -my thoughts, my emotions, my tribulations, my opinions- when i am with certain older women, and then they give me their advice or understanding. sometimes i sense left-handed compliments and resentments, even irritation...i wonder how much of what i sense is real, and how much of it are vestiges of a dysfunctional past. i love genessa, but we will never be the same together. neither will ana and i, or stephen and i, or mom and i, or grandma and i. or i. growing up is weird.