spring has finally fallen and while i’m revitalized by the sunny glow and occasionally hit with flashes of wanting to do spring-like things (go running outside or search for buttercups to hold beneath my still-paled skin and test myself to see if i fancy butter, these days), i must admit i’m finding it rather difficult to think-spring when indoors all week long in a windowless room. now, i must clarify, for i am entirely happy with my job and am not complaining; i’m just voicing a tiny frustration with my own inability to embrace this sudden sweep of april sunshine as fully as i wish i would.

we all draw inspiration from somewhere, and to be fair, i do believe the time has come for me to reveal my primary literary influence upon my own writing. is not imitation the highest form of flattery? or so they say, but so often we chastise those who dare to covet our creative genius and produce pieces that suggest an evident likeness to another’s work (i, even i, am guilty of such transgressions; how i hate to see another steal an image or phrase that i breathed into this world! for if i am not my writing, who am i, in this world of clay and stone?). we read something another wrote or see something another painted and wish we had thought of it first; we curse ourselves for not dreaming up that riff, that sentence, that succession of brush strokes that so easily could have come from our fingertips, and we hold our chins up high and point glazed eyes skyward as we valiantly convince ourselves that we can find out own voice streaming through the clouded haze of artistic potential that may-or-may-not be suggestive of another’s voice.

so here he is, my shadowed muse whose whispers run through nearly ever word i write, be it only in the recesses of my own muse-searching soul. i’ll deliver you first a taste of his poetic voice that lingers quietly in the stillness over my eyelids when i retreat away from the harsh glare of this new york life:

“we couldn’t all be cowboys
so some of us are clowns
some of us are dancers on the midway,
we roam from town to town.
i hope that everybody can find a little flame;
me, i just say my prayers, light myself on fire
and walk out on the wire once again.”

adam duritz, the finest poetic lyricist to ever breathe, in my humble opinion. go see counting crows live, or go to one of their pages and read his lyrics.
you may never see the world in the same hues of blue and green ever again.

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