He is propped upright in some last lost corner of his life
Waiting for the only new thing left to see
He cultivates memories rich and brown like gardens---
Hardly eighty his eyes already inward turning
He has banished himself to worlds of fine gray dust
Tonight, wrapped around a chair
He rolls another damped cigarette
And sends those blue clouds on their familiar reach
Into the bag of weathered yarns
And like some deaf and total plasmic being
Turns himself inside out
To feed on the silence that is me.

The Silence That is Me
by Utah Philips

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Woke up today listless, not wanting to do anything but just to go somewhere. Maybe I'll go to Santa Cruz, just take the drive with my super-vintage car (hehe!) in hope that we will manage to pass that crazy drive over the mountain. Just put some songs into the stereo and keep on going. And in the middle of the way, I will let my mind drift off to silly imaginations and memories as I normally do, with the help of sound and scenery, in the hope that I will finally get to my destination.

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There are two things there I want to see--- St George Hotel and that bronze statue of the saw-playing musician. But apart from the goal of seeing the two, the ride in itself I think is already worth the while for me.

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Hmmm... I may have really just convinced myself to do it! See what writing does to me?!! Hehe. Thanks, ms. pinkipod, for telling me about blogging >:)