Mississippi summers

I don't think I have any deep or penetrating thoughts today... It was (still is) a beautiful day outside. Blue sky with large slow moving clouds. The big white puffy kind that make great pictures. They remind me of the opening to ground hog day, all white puffy clouds in a lush blue sky sound like oompa music. buuum, bum, bum, buuum, bum, bum buuum, tweedle-lee tweedle-lee, tweedle-lee... Open with a tuba, deep, comical, surreal, follow with flutes, with a shrill twill. Don't think I'll be posting this one. I wish I could play that music with this post so people would hear it as they read.

My neighbor Sharon read a book recently called a piece of cake by cupcake brown. It's rather an oxymoron, nothing like it sounds. She (Sharon) keeps reiterating that cupcake brown is raw, she writes everything. This involves all the details of being forced into prostitution as a child (eight?)... That word "raw" says a lot. Raw is brutal, unrefined- I mean in the sense of not being polished to smooth the edges, nothing is done to make it easier to hear or read or consume... There is an intrinsic appeal, knowing that this is bare honesty... But it isn't easy to hear or let in. It's abrasive, the raw truth.

My spirit longs to go back to Mississippi, to my grandies front yard, clutching a clear glass jar and watching the fire flies in the early dusk... I want to run down the railroad tracks and find old muscats... I want to see her beautiful vegetable garden again, have her chocolate pie... be there again. But I can't, she's been dead so long and those things probably don't exist anymore... It's the face of the purest part of my childhood and it's gone; all that's left is a memory... I don't even know the name of the city she lived in, I have no idea how to get back. I have all these dreams about being somewhere I don't know, far from home and struggling to find my way back and I usually can't. That's how it feels, nothing inside me knows how to get back to grandies house.

I have this idea about creating a photo album entirely of lost and found photos and oddities that fit. A family album of strangers. Something appeals to me so much about the fact that these pictures are all lost or forgotten. They find there way to me in books returned to the library-and never claimed, run over for days on a street corner...

I forgot to add: what the hell, why not?