Here we are again.  The brisk winter morning embraces me.  It’s about 10:30 on Sunday and my internal clock has woken me after only about 3 ½ hours of slumber.  My head is swimming in itself again; its quiet unrest is the sound of the cock crowing.  I quiet myself on the keys, careful not to wake the guests who slumber soundly in the adjoining rooms.  Last night was a good one; again, they come in rapid succession at times.

My head spins this morning.  I do not know why.  I am not the keeper of my own winds sometimes; I cannot direct the flow of this deluge of thought and perambulations.  I must merely be content to be tossed back and forth in the flow of the river.  No oar for me though, I’ll weather it in my own way.

You see I know, and I don’t know.  I’m sure, and I’m not sure.  I’m contented in this, and yet not.  Honestly… I don’t know.  So what is the verdict then, what’s the story morning glory?  Act one plays itself down and the intermission is coming, what shall be written for the second act?  I’m a writer by nature, so I have my rough drafts, I have my tales to tell in this 3 act farce, I have my metaphors to impart and my soliloquy to deliver.  Shall I simply wing it?  Whatever would the critics say?  Would this play be lambasted in the papers, would it be turned out as a bush league exercise in the trite and cliché?  Or would it be hailed as brilliance, embraced by all, and loved by just as many?  Oh my dear friends, I am no bard, if I were perhaps I could orchestrate a better night of theatre.  But alas I am only the smith of very simple words, the singer of simple songs.

There is a harmonious tone running through this.  I cannot seem to silence it.  It is a docent and lovely tone, but its ringing makes it hard to think sometimes.  And how I have tried to silence it, there are so many good reasons to do so, so many things that go so wrong no matter how hard you try to make them right.  I have postulated this, considered it, pondered it till I could not consider another angle, for no other angle existed, all the scenarios played to completion in my minds eye.  And still it rings in my ears, still it endures.  It is the melody of a song waiting to be written, waiting to be sung with vim and verve and soaring conviction.  It is the melody of the coming day, and I wonder still what brings the dawn.

For now though, I silently file these things away.  Today is not the day for such tales to be told, for such songs to be sung.  Today belongs to the currents and the four winds.  Today I shall go as the tides take me.  Today is for procrastinating and pushing daisies.  But I know that it is enough, it has to be.  I know that today is what is and I embrace it for all it summary delights, imperfections, disappointments, distractions, deviances, and delicacies.  This is as it should be, this is why all continues to be right in my little microcosm.  Tomorrow?

Tomorrow belongs to the rebels.  Tomorrow belongs to the robots.  Tomorrow belongs to the Squirrels and the Louts Blossoms.  Tomorrow belongs to the fascists and the talk show hosts.  Tomorrow belongs to the princes, the paupers, the puppy dogs, and the prima donnas.  Tomorrow belongs to the sound and the fury and the signification of nothing and everything.

Tomorrow belongs to the zoot suits and the redwood roots, to the monks and the madmen, the masons and the queen mothers.  Tomorrow belongs to the boot straps and the Santa Claus laps,  to the pop music stars and the angels bearing scars.  Tomorrow belongs to the believers and the grim reapers, to the Wal-Mart Stores and the cheap attention whores.  Tomorrow belongs to the two bit jokers and the red hot pokers, to the kids at play and blue and the grey.  Tomorrow belongs to sweet babies and coyly phrased maybes, to all six senses and the white picket fences.  Tomorrow belongs to silly love songs like Up Where We Belong, to trite cliché and God molded clay.  Tomorrow belongs to your lilted petals and my blood stained medals, to your blues eyes and my big surprise.  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, from the Bards words I borrow, bring the sweet surcease of sorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Till next time my good readers.

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