hunched over a short end-table of sorts, a small wooden pillar more suited for an obscenely large candle than acting as a desk for a type pad. hanging over the edges like cheese.
I feel like I’m hanging over the edge. had a steroid shot a few days ago. hasn’t helped. I’m just trying to cough up my spleen but can only manage bits and pieces.
but it’s raining. so I’m writing.
I’ve been, lately, and it’s been good. fast. but good. I don’t like the mask metaphor so much… though the masque’s of the past seem entirely appropriate… but I don’t like the mask metaphor really because my face stays generally the same. I have a rough beard I keep trimmed pretty close, and wrinkles outside my eyes. My eyes don’t open very much. But I like the hats metaphor; because my face doesn’t change. But I wear so many different hats. (I’m not sure how I like this bolding business… but perhaps it will rope some slow reader into the stories.) I’d nearly forgotten how pleasant the wind was and the bare sun on my bare head – and my hair’s been short for so long I’d forgotten that sensation… you know that sensation.
Recording Artist, Motivational Speaker, Entrepreneurial Adventurer, Brazen Actualist, Riveting Storyteller, Reluctant Peacemaker, HipHop Enthusiastic, Digital Forefronter, Agressive Lover, Incandescent Visioneer, Irreligious Disciple, Sidesplayed Tiderider, Resolute Daydreamer, Windswept Pioneer, Cockeyed Troublefinder, Widesmiled Ambassador, Wildchild of God.
ladies and gentlemen. the failure of nametags.
I like the hats metaphor. Because I do change hats regularly. for mood or occasion or endeavor or whatever.
I’ve concluded a tremendous road-trip within the past weeks. The hats I wore on said trip were varied and colorful. The trip went like this: Left Atlanta after my youngest brother’s game on a tuesday night, Valdosta late-night with a friend for a couple hours of sleep on a floor, Lakeland for an unofficial campus visit at Florida Southern for a few hours, Tampa International to send my brother off, University of Southern Florida for several days battling a miserable sinus infection, Clearwater to scope out the beaches and potential tour stops, Through Ft. Meyers on my way to Sanibel with extended family over seafood at the pink flamingo – shelling and selling and winning advocates, Miami for several days with the heart of the family for food and the coconut grove arts festival perusing jewelers and collecting marketing information, A1A having collected my mother starting on Ocean Ave in Southbeach for 4 1/2 hours along the coast to West Palm and eventually Cocoa Beach by interstate, 9 1/2 hours of interstate the next day brought us back to Atlanta where I slept in my bed, 24 hours later to Flowery Branch and eventually to Lake Burton and Joni’s, Greenville the next morning and afternoon before Clemson that night, and Athens for dinner with a friend before caravaning back to Atlanta for a late night, afterwhich I rested, for several days.
My granddaddy used to ask me, “are you complaining or braggin?” and embarrassed he’d discovered I was doing both I’d hide my head and make excuses. These days I shoot a little straighter: I like driving and I like talking; but I really like not driving… and I really like not talking. So that was a long 10 days.
I’ve still an entry of incredible significance I haven’t gotten to. But this foray seemed timely and astute so it is.
This is me without a hat. hair cut close.
yours,
Clifton
Aqueous Transmissions 