First Light

The last I wrote a log entry, I was facing a stonewall, rolling paint down in sheets. Cold air or a summer breeze, I laid down my canvas: a stunning black wall parched for the painting I see.

I slipped a quarter in each pocket to keep me level. A flask in the till for when I’ve failed.

The wall was east and the sun was west, and I, but for a building a thousand paces away, slept between them.

Note from

Here, we confront a new paradox.

There was writing on the walls.  Post-its and message boards and maps. A poster of the muscle groups and scales for techniques.

There was a howl there before. There was a shell over the ears,  so it amplified and took on a life of its own.

It was loud in there.  The waves of the air that grab a soul’s scent and it whispers back.

It knows the energy. The environment. 
It knows the air.. 
It knows the air I breathe..