walks around the lake

skipping along the path, watching my shadow lead the way through the sculptured and carefully laid out landscape... i watch the ducks and geese. i chase them into the water. they chase me and make dreadful noises when i get too close. i can hear the fountains... i watch them with their neon colored highlights. the sounds of 270 coming from behind me are not quite drowned out by the tall bushes pretending to be fencing. the perfect display of urban meets rural. suburb yuppieville like woa.

my home.

i talk into a tape recorder. i scribble on paper. i talk on a cell phone to hopeful beings of inspiration. i watch couples speed up to pass me, and listen to their conversations stop and then start when they think they are far enough out of my earshot.

i sit on the steps. right in the middle of the path. i lay my head back. people have to go around me. "why doesn't she sit on one of the benches?" good question.

i sing that same melody i always do when writing lyrics. i can't read them in the dark. but i still write them down because the tape recorder distorts my singing voice so much so that it hurts me to try and listen to it.

i wonder what the people i watch think of me. alone and awkward... choosing to spend my time in a place normally occupied by those on social excursions. i avoid eye contact with those i know... in an effort to fool myself that they aren't doing the same thing.

why should i not try to live a life where my career is creation? whether my creation is beautiful... truthful... or a raging and confusing mess... does that really matter? when the point of the act is the act itself- not the byproduct or the produce.

i feel like myself. a bit awkward and alone... but full of wonder and awe for the things i see. vibrant and aware. and alive.