Kitchens, Pool Rooms, Bathrooms, and Home.

I sit in the round with my friends.
Each glazed with a dewed morning gloss. A shell of dampened white glue. A translucent peelable haze that will flake as the day moves. They are transcendent, they are invincible, they are in love. They are shirtless, pantless, hairy, unshowered, sober, hungover, pale as the season. They are guiltless and impulsive. Patient and eagar to evolve into the next day with the history of the last. There's no shame in hook-ups, fucks, passing out, or reclusing. The next morning is limbo and vacant.
A shitless portapoty of opportunity.
Regardless of what the world wants to believe, we believe that we can only believe in each other. What others believe about us is never fully true, or perhaps we're never truly honest with ourselves. Perhaps we're ever changing. What others want is to believe we are real and we are right.
We are right because we've found our house. Our roof is our arms, our laughter, our screams. It is happenstances hiccup that led us to this community, but it is a community more unabashed, ever forgiving and wondrous than the one that held me in and out of the womb.
We're every fake, faux-pas, and quintessence.
We acknowledge that.
We've all absolutely fucked up to be in this position right now, but for what its worth, at this moment, all the wrong choices we've made are alright.
The door is open, a new folk walks in to an energy that is bitter as licorice, electric as pop rocks and wise as black coffee with cream.
We do not seek to change but to learn from each new person that comes into our lives. They help us second guess ourselves. A pair of new eyes to a habitat that may have routined itself.
So we sit in the round, and she unfolds a wad of post-it notes.
'Holy shit someone wrote a novel.' says a friend.
The lovers are chain smoking in the far right corner, a few are fiddling with laces and zippers, all are enjoying caffeine's detoxificating alchemy.
She crinkles the paper. Their ears are smart to the mornings sharp sounds. They cross their legs, stretch their legs, and listen.
She speaks what she's written.
They listen.
She finishes.
They smile, and politely nod and enjoy what they've heard. Without a moment they continue their previous occupations.
She smiles and folds her paper up.
No she doesn't need a critic, or glory, or respect. She needs a group of people who will just listen. She doesn't need decency, or someone to learn something to discover something about themselves.
A couple pair of ears, or one, to lend themselves once in a while is a gift in itself.
What great friends I have.

take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/acorntrail

a very talented young man I had the pleasure of collaborating with the other weekend.