define my joy

and watching a movie in cinema. I had no idea that this is possible until yesterday. I was really born yesterday…

on clean flannel sheets, waking to the sound of rain, and then seeing that Blade Runner was on TV.

of words that don’t sound near as dire as they actually are.

From today’s NYTimes:

“Arriving mostly in sealed plastic bags, these included birds’ feet, whole feathers, tiny bits of down, and pulverized bits of guts, known as snarge.”

snow flurry as I walked out of the grocery store.

Watching the flakes drift like ash and disappear on the pavement.

The ‘connection’ felt at a second visit to a non-barbershop hair place. I didn’t realize how cold and silent I had been the past 20 years while getting anonymous haircuts.

My oldest daughter’s 9th birthday, and her choosing to go to ‘our’ special restaurant even though I was out of town.

Becoming more real. Needing less.

Watching the inauguration with a hushed crowd of several hundred on the big-screens in the work dining area. In a very red state. And seeing the spontaneous applause and the hopeful looks.

Facing ghosts and not hiding.

Bobby Bare, Jr.

Disappearing in the spotlight. (And from it.)

Good music and bad coffee. Checking email, but not too seriously. Seeing what the day’s calendar looks like. Checking social networking sites. Friends floating in for a quick talk and smile.

to use as much corporatespeak as possible in my meeting this morning, and getting away with it. (Did I ideate? You betcha. Was there blue-sky solutioneering? Of course. Were paradigms leveraged for task-based continuity to avoid the principle of least astonishment in what came to the table as an underpants gnome business plan? Naturally. Did I construct a flaming-bag-of-dogshit delivery model metaphor? Uh huh.)

The act of solving mysteries. (The thirst can be better than the slaking.)

The millions of tiny pushes that set us all into motion every moment of every day.

Damien Jurado’s “Ohio” playing on my last.fm this morning.

Processed cheese on a breakfast sandwich.

Rakim’s flow.

Being greeted by my youngest this morning with “Hello, flower.”

Anderson Cooper asking a dog candidate for the White House “Who’s a good boy?”

Anything by RHP/M. Kozelek/Sun Kil Moon.

crisscross-applesauce on the inflate-o-bed watching a bowl game, checking FB and 43t, and cracking into Holldobler & Wilson’s “Superorganism – The Beauty, Elegance, and Strangeness of Insect Societies”.

My youngest daughter asking me if liked harps when I was a little boy.

My middle daughter simply being her curious, brave self.

My oldest daughter thinking that an Army-themed birthday party might net her a BB gun as a gift.

DJ Earworm’s “United State of Pop” for 2008.

a nightbridge in fog, chasing a headlight nimbus into a ghost that is eating the edges off of everything.

Green weeds in a brown lawn.

The ornamental decoy in the pond across the street, riding too low in the water, poorly formed and marked (making it utterly unconvincing to ducks), but ultimately a reflection of a lovely and uncomplicated desire to see more ducks.

Using the words ‘latex paint’ to describe a wine’s bouquet at the wineshop yesterday, to have the merchant sniff, think, resniff, and agree.

Grilled meatloaf, hoppin’ john, fried okra, and cornbread with corn in it served with sweet tea by a shoulder-touching waitress who calls patrons ‘darlin’.

Asobi Seksu’s “New Years”

Dead Can Dance’s “Dreams Made Flesh”

The prospect of fried chicken and champagne.

The Weepies.

Eusociality.

Laundry day.

Seeing the silvery filaments binding everything together.

Anagrams.

Inner ladle wile, Ladle Rat Rotten Hut a raft attar cordage, an ranker dough belle. “Comb ink, sweat hard,” setter wicket woof, disgracing is verse. Ladle Rat Rotten Hut entity bet rum an stud buyer groin-murder’s bet.

Quaerendo invenietis

The Fall. Orange Juice. Wire.

Gifts to everyone or no one.

The Everybodyfields.

The Weakerthans.

Freddie Hubbard.

Lunchtime.