Tiny European Cars

I have a secret little page full of stars (otherwise known as bad poetry) that I've been working on for some time. Some of it is inspired by stories, some inspired by circumstance, most of it sails on memory, a glaring, crashing sea of streaming pictures. I stuff my little words in quiet corners, saving them for later, so I can pull them out one day and wag my head at my young heart's desires.

I was thinking of this last night, driving home from the Bottletree and listening to Clem Snide. I was thinking of my plain words on crumpled page and Eef Barzelay's lawn chair pondering lyrics, so simple and interesting. I say "lawn chair" because when I hear them, over his formulaic, easy construction of a song, it makes me think of sitting in the front driveway on a Saturday, leaning back in a criss-cross nylon and aluminum chair, drinking coca-cola out of a perspiring red can and watching the neighborhood cars zoom past one after another. I see the lazy, lingering stride of day but I'm thinking of something more. This is the way Eef Barzelay tells his stories. Open ended and honest. I wish that I could do the same, with such simplicity and beauty. In my last blog, I left you a small bunch of thoughts, a flash of memory of wintertime from what seems long ago. I don't know why I thought of it, or wanted to share, but there it is.