No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2001-05-30 - 11:20 p.m.

she called

damn my cell phone. i missed her call. that's not the important thing though.

the important thing is that she called.

SoccerGirl called.

i shouldn't be this excited by a quick message. i shouldn't be. but i am.

i hardly know her at all. we've only been out once.


i think some of the sexiest people in the world are women soccer players. and she plays soccer. hell, she plays semi-pro soccer. she could kick my ass up and down a soccer field. and i dig that.

i'm weird that way.


she seems cool and self-assured and we agree on stuff, and she's smart and has a conscience and i dig her.

i probably dig her too much. i probably have this thing built up around an image in my mind that i've ascribed her face to and pretty soon i'll get into the fourteen some odd levels of indirection that occur every time you say "hi" to someone. i know that i don't honestly know squanto about her yet.


did i tell you i wrote a song about her? i guess it's not specifically about her, it's more about the delicate nature of the beginning of a relationship, but i used her name in this really clever pun thing to change the meaning of the chorus from the obvious meaning into some commentary on the whole relationship thing. yes, i am that clever thanks for noticing.

dude, i've never written a song for a woman before. not even ones i've actually dated instead of just barely met. okay there was one, but it sucked (the song, not the woman).

i dunno. this is the point where i wonder if writing is good for me or just an excuse to over-analyze the hell out of things.


she called.

for now, that's gonna be enough.

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