Writing Wet

...Now Watergate does not bother me/Does your conscience bother you?....

Indian-step across glistening pavement, wet flicks licking hot-cold fire against cheek and neck and wrist. A fat crystal tear shines prismatic on the painted red petal of my toe.

"It's a miserable day."

Is it?

"Well, the weather is miserable."

Because it's raining?

"It's the sort of day you don't feel like doing anything."

It's not the weather, then, is it? It's you.

An egret soars, kite-like, above me as I ease into the curve of the ramp.

For a writing destination, I'm considering the library, which distracts me with books. I wonder if I wouldn't be better off somewhere there's lubricant and smokes. I chainsmoke when I write, though I'm a chipper otherwise. For the definitive definition of chipper, see Malcolm Gladwell's wonderful book, The Tipping Point.

Today I spend time on my favorite project, the one all who know me are SICK of hearing about, Watergate! the Musical; revising, editing, because I have a Coco-imposed deadline, and I hate more than anything disappointing people I love. Which would be, oh, only everybody.

"She's so funny, I just love her," I said.

"You love everybody," she said.

"I do not!"

"Name four people you don't love. That you know."

I did, too. I even thought of a fifth.

"You had to work, though," she said.

So?