First things first, cats and kittens, check out my blog: On the Road with a Slinky Vagabond. As if the tights didn't give it away, I am desperate for attention 🙂
Second things second-I'm on a bus with free wi-fi. The future is weird.
July was not eventful for me, but thy days rarely are. No more retail, no more NC, i'll be in New York for awhile for the NYRF. Super Jazzed! Since I really have so little to talk about, but don't want to short change ya'll (Ronn will blame my new blogging endeavor, believe you me) I'm going to offer up some samples of my writing which WON'T find their way onto the blog. see? it's a fanclub exclusive!
All words copyright John Wray.
I have to say that, right?
Benchseat Song
A full tank of gas and a couple of cokes,
The radio sings softly down a long winding road
The windows rolled down and the head lamps on high
On a dark moonless night with a star-glittered sky
We get out of the city, we'll find some back woods
And pretend that we're living in times that were good
Well, you're not Faye Wray and i'm no James Dean,
But I'll be Leonard Cohen and you can be Anais Nin.
On this late quiet drive let's not say a word,
The road becomes sky for two lost lonely birds.
Sometimes I call myself Darius
These tape deck days of September get me thinking about the men (boys, actually) of my tribe. And you know, I can't be the only one with a tendency to think of the girls (women, actually) in my life as a kind of boundless collective. I think of the divisions. There are the ones for whom I primarily write poems in anger, poems in haste, poems in love, or poems in crayon. I think of wind and movement and the progress of friends as they out pace me in life. I'm tired of the scenery here. I didn't swim this summer, and now it's passed me by. But maybe I am finally on this fall bandwagon, The air's not so heavy these days. It's been an awful year, and and it's finally winding down. The time has come for dark beers and soups. That may be all I need to settle down where I am, be content with the life I've landed upon.
Those 18 hours of sleep last night, nightmares and all, did me more good that any of you will ever know.
*It's worth mentioning that about a month after writing this, I contacted the Tortuga Twins about auditioning to join.
Parcel You
I dreamt you were two pieces: a cardboard box, rattling with your bones, surprisingly light; and an old envelope, bound with leather string. This large old envelope was full of more wrinkled old pages than I cared to count. I carried both with me, and in this manner we would travel. When I wished to talk with you, I would remove from the envelope a single page, and on it find written your thoughts. Even when i sought a reply to my own musing I would somehow be guided to the right sheet of paper. I left these pages scattered behind me as I walked with the box in the crook of one arm, and in this manner strangers would find snippets of our conversation. Once, we even discussed the nature of this enevelope, and when i attempted to somehow purposefully pull the wrong sheet from the collection, i found written: "haha, nice try".
Probably not what anyone's looking for in this journal, but I am trying to make a real effort to o more to nurture the writer in me. And since our face book wall has been rather thoughtful lately, I felt liberated. August promises escapades worthy of the tights!
