I’m dragging my mind around everywhere I go. I’m clutching it to keep it from running off, and I’m losing my grip.
. .. .. .
When I was little, I had a record player that looked like a suitcase, a plastic one made to look like it was stitched together with random cuts of denim. It had two small latches on the front like what you’d find on such a suitcase, and when unlatched, the top opened along hindges on the back. The turntable was there inside. My favorite records included one with Shirley Temple songs, an audio book of fairy tales, and a Steve Miller Band album that I found in my room. The band’s album cover had a flying white horse with rainbow wings, so wasn’t I surprised to find such a treasure; wasn’t I surprised to discover its contents. My first exposure to and love of rock music was Swingtown and The Joker.
. . . … .
I’ve been waiting for a layer of paint to dry, and I thought coming here would occupy my mind. But I can’t type loudly enough.
The paint is dry now, I think. It’s ready for another layer of emotional turmoil.