"I went back to the ocean today, With my books and my papers I went to the rocks by the ocean, But the weather changed quickly, oh the ocean said, "What are you trying to find? I don't care, I'm not kind, I've bludgeoned your sailors, I've spat out their keepsakes, Oh it's ashes to ashes, but always the ocean." But the ocean can't come to this town, this town is a song about you. You don't know how lucky you are, you don't know how much I adore you, You are the welcoming back from the ocean. And the ones that can know you so well are the ones that can swallow you whole. I have a good and I have an evil, I thought the ocean, the ocean thought nothing, You are the welcoming back from the ocean." -'The Ocean,' Dar Williams What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? I don't think in words and when I try to explain all I can think of is metaphors which again you'll ask me to explain. My mind feels calm and quiet, but not completely still, it is like the movement of the tide and crashing waves, it is movement and progression, but slowly, almost unnoticable, but still moving in the background. I need to get back to the water. Swim until my body is moving without my having to think, and my thoughts just flowing like the water, without subject, thesis, plot, or any words at all. I want to go cover canvases with color, but here I am bound by beign a word kid at an art school, I have no right to dream in colors here. I would feel a need to be advised, like the dorm kids who bring me their papers to proof read. I will paint surrounded by bookshelves. I want to go to the coffeehouse where they won't let me pay for coffee. I will spend days entertaining Em over crossword puzzles, Scrabble with Star Wars themes, and Pick in english and badly spelled french, card games with mix-&-match rules. Flirt with old men over Shakespearian quotes and Joni Mitchell lyrics, who call me "doll," or "chit," and so not blanch when I call them "Mac," "Dude-Man," "hippy/writer/photo/painter/old dude." I will send letters to make everyone in the east question my sanity, but still look forward to recieving mail postmarked in Poulsbo, Bremerton, Seattle, Canada, regardless of the sanity of the sender. (I am now accepting mailing adresses for the summer. *grin*)