Wait, the voice speaks to me. All you have to do is cry. I am haunted by a deity or maybe it’s simply fear of normalcy. I live comfortably between the world of spirt and soil.

Brightly covered canvas. Music that pushes you to dance. Words on paper that changes your life. All you have to do is grab a stranger’s hand. Repetition of practice, yet it’s never the same twice. Improv, light, grove, brush stroke, sentences, flesh, tone, beat, dance…it feels good; it’s never the same twice.

You can tell what you have done to me. Always helping me. Yet at all times above me. Never letting me meet you. Mystery with no need of solving. It always feels good. That is wishful thinking. It’s just a feeling of doing. It’s never the same twice.

“I am a project. Like my house. I am rickety with charm.” ~ Christiane Dolores, the lady with two first names, like me.

She walked into the room, quiet, never looking at the crowd. Everything happens for a reason. In her left hand she holds a handful of salt. She takes a pinch in her right hand and proceeds to create a line, to create a barrier of protection from us, the audience. That’s you and me. Protection from you. Protection from me. There is no pressure now, I think to myself. Enjoy the whatever-of-words to come towards me. She takes out a small bottle of water and walks in a circle around the microphone. Rosewater mists into the air.

“She was more like a beauty queen from a movie screen” ~ Michael Jackson.

From Dutch-African decent. Life pulled from both hemispheres. This lady is weird/wyrd. The talk, the topic, the subject is weird. “I do not judge you for your normalness” She said. I fall in love with her right there and then. Magical, weird, dramatic.

Forty-five minutes later I walk out of that room. She gave me nothing; there was no take away. Yet she is still with me. She was interesting. I discovered her. A gift.

I walk out of the building. Cross through a park where lots of homeless people are killing time, at least that’s what my mind tells me. I find a new tea shop, not coffee. Tea? I order an Arnold Palmer tea, half iced tea half lemonade. I sit at a wooden table that’s wobbly but manageable to write at.

Brilliant f’ing mistakes of discovery. My life. My journal. My art. All filled up with brilliant f’ing mistakes of discovery. Transcendental, existential; the whatever moments of yesterday, beyond questioning, repetition, repetition, repetition, mistakes, discovery great things come out of shit, introspection, expressive is the upside of affliction. Pour me a drink. Rejuvenate myself.

A damaged soul; it’s like a romantic notion…dislocated artists trying not to be remembered but re-discorved.

Day-by-day and that is a romantic notion to me.