lord, let me die with a hammer in my hand

another solemn weekend.
riding a bit later, looks like the day will be clear after all. the weather has turned cool here, seagulls pitch overhead towards downtown. lonely still. the animals of the house wait and stare, i have nothing to offer and they they don't drink. doing the same as the stillness gets heavier. wine still in my head from last night. i watched shortcuts until i fell asleep, early for once, by 9:00.
np. american music club - mercury. reminds of the carr house porch, h digging with a brick next to the house, fighting memory and itchy skin. never quite forgotten his smell.
looking forward to a show on tuesday.
swedish fish. cheap coffee. old rings. blurry morning.
thinking of a book i'd write if i had the gumption. been batting it around in theory for a while. a girl following a season south through argentina. forced to create her own music, living on the accuracy of her own timing. there are no other people in the story, much less her. "it's a little weak for my taste"
the battle to edit is a bloody one. rank as it is and stale with dread, nobody wins. i lose first. i wouldn't mind sand if there were no water.
and i don't mind the living, it's the crooked mind that kills the play. i know how easy the quitting is and it's been a long time since i realized the price. the cypress still sings the mirror. no shade on the ride to forgiveness where water slows the softshell.


One mornin', one mornin' as work I begun
What did I see ridin' out of the sun
On the road from Lexington

One rider, one rider beatin' the breeze
Down on his saddle, low to his knees
Comin' through my willow trees

Now closer, the terrible work of the gun
Was stiffened and black where his blood all had run
But I knew my wayward son

One mornin', one mornin' the boy of my breast
Came to my door unable to rest
Even in the arms of death

gillian welch