Promises not kept

Ok, I never did fully write up Charlottetown, although overall I had such a fantastic amazing time that I should have. My memory is a seive and I won't later remember all the sharp fun details like Frank Trainor's little feet and the particular timbre and colour of Carmen Townsend's voice filling the Piece a Cake like nerve gas, and the relaxed warmth of watching the flamenco wrist flair of Este Mundo's guitar guys... so much... but now it's too late. The world moves on.

I have a secret fixation on providing a Grease-style "OMG" makeover to... no, I won't say at the risk of hurt feelings and misunderstanding. There is one performer who, I think, denies their own potential for attractiveness, and in this person, I see a bit of myself. I want to unveil the beauty that this person is hiding. Like it's any of my business.

Speaking of my business...

I have been thinking today about how much I love to write. I love it in a way that scares me, that feels like I might become engulfed. Sometimes when I'm really into writing something, I will deliberately get up and procrastinate... I'm never sure if it's because the intensity is too much or because if I delay finishing, I can enjoy it longer, or that favourite bugbear, fear of failure. Obviously pretty much everyone who blogs seeks some kind of validation, so it can't be a surprise to read that I covet approbation. What if my writing is actually terrible? Worse, what if it's trite??

I found this today on my hard drive and don't remember writing all of it...

my eyes glaze and unglaze as i traipse through the city
only as my sole wears thin does my loneliness fade
but any feeling of fullness is empty and doesn't stay

so it's back and forth: down towards the water
and back past the library where the singer plays
sitting atop a stone wall that runs from the corner
to the library's doors and back again, that rules
over a kingdom--a guitar case full of change.

i wish i was him, and i'd become a star
he wishes i'd tell him that so he could laugh at me
he wishes he could tell me that nothing's that easy.

i was just trying to get a drink, you were asking me my story
you talked to me like i was the sun and you were the morning
with this hair and those questions for eyes, and much less pretense
than i've known, you break my longings on the shore
and wrap me up and away from hopes and plans.

you're a kind of color that sleeping children see--
and me, my missing pieces out of town, out of sync.
out in the rusty grains and tired edges of our love
everything is contained.

EDIT: God I'm an idiot. Of course I don't remember writing this... Sean did. Which allows me to really appreciate how wonderful it is and returns me to the thought that indeed perhaps my writing is trite and terrible. However, I apparently attract great writers. So that's good.