I'm looking for things to write about.

I haven't written much lately other than my journal, but I have been thinking creatively with the selected tableaus I’ve posted on Instagram. I engage social media in a somewhat vague way; I feel like nothing is really left up to the imagination otherwise.

So I've been reading a lot these last few weeks. I'm taking it slow with The Paris Review Book: of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, ... and Everything Else in the World Since 1953. And before that, the Walter Isaacson book on Steve Jobs. The Isaacson pretty much flew by and quenched my curiosity about Apple, while The Review is setting off firecrackers.

Hence
my salivating
to actively rest
fingertips
on sensitive keys
and gentleness.

Ambient piano
stereophonic
on the Yamahas,
a duet of notes
and unicorns
vying for my paws.

Tap, tap, tap
the endless clicks,
an inner frenzy
of love
& happiness.

This is basically how all my blogs begin. Experiments conceived, contemplated, contrived, coddled, criticized, "and some more shit" as my beautiful friend in Harlem would say, and she meant it, with a subtle lean as she sucked the air straight out of her cheek. You could bet on it.

Literary fiction. When you say it like that it sounds rather—infinite. That's my genre, and it should read like Lorrie Moore, whose short story "Terrific Mother" made me swoon. So yeah, I'm looking for fiction, but I think I'll make a t-shirt first, just to be sure it's cool. Simple black cotton tee with letters in white:

I’m looking for fiction.

Folks will approach me when I'm wearing the minimalist couture and they'll say, "Hey, I'm not sure if it's fiction, but there was this one time …" And I'll listen while I frame the shot because you know I'll be hustling a photograph while they tell me all about it. I don't get out much. I'm a homebody. When I'm doing all that reading, I like to be comfy in my bed, laid back, feet up, with a single light focused on the page. But yeah, fiction in the streets. I'm wearing that mantra. And if I'm digging the story they tell me, I'll give them a homemade business card so they can get themselves a t-shirt, for free: because they gave me something to write about.

That's love.

⌘