Kitty and I Are Having an Affair With A Dead Horn Player

His name is (was) Chet, and he was unschooled, melancholic, difficult, frequently impoverished, and a heroin addict. But sometimes his music sounds like the feel of the water I swam through today, which in turn felt like the skin of the blonde (and you wonder why I have trouble not thinking about him?) - soft, so very, very liquid soft.

So we are having an all-Chet day. Contemplative, sad, your basic overdose of longing.

"When I was very young, the world was younger than I - as merry as a carousel."

"All you can count on is [sic] the raindrops that fall on little girl blue."

And yet, despite how that sounds, I'm enjoying it. Boywich would know what I meant; there is a certain languor about sitting there and letting that faint sadness and not-so-faint desire for something just lap at you, again and again, in waves. It's pleasure, but of a different order than the typical urge for fun and candy and cartoons, if you know what I mean.

I would someday like to teach a class - or maybe found a program - in synesthesia. The term is actually a medical condition wherein (there's that word again!) a person's senses get tangled together, so that they see music. I'm not saying I'd necessarily want to be (uncontrollably) miswired like that, but some of the most creative things I've ever done (and thoughts I've ever had) have come from ideas or images or experiences making the leap from one medium to another - just like synapses.

And now some of you are thinking: Whoa, what the hell is this all about? Days and days of silly boytalk and now this? Well, that is how my brain works. It bounces about sometimes like a popcorn popper full of thoughts, some trivial, some erotic, some mystical, some impossible to categorize in the time we have here.

Anyway....I've had a nice organic sort of thinking day, and the cat seems to know that and hasn't been crying hardly at all, as if she's trying not to interrupt the flow. Or maybe it's because I changed her litter last night.