Standard Op

At the end of the year, I felt like Edward Hopper’s White clown in Soir Bleu. Does that make me a cliché? I probably won’t make it to the Whitney to compare notes. I sat alone in my big house. Didn’t drink anything stronger than green tea, and tried to ignore all the noise outside on the streets.
I’ve got a new job, but as it's only a stop gap, I don’t even feel like writing about it. I will say this. I haven’t had to work during the greater part of 2010 and I set about grounding myself, but now out of boredom, I sought something to do.
The girl from the Seven-11 turned out to be a wash. She went away as high as she came. I thought there was something more there. She wrote an interesting little poem, but it must have come from before her mind went blank. It could have been addressed to anybody, and probably had been presented to several gobs before me.
My mother told me in a dream that she tried to call me, but couldn’t get past the long distance exchange. I don’t have a working land phone. Perhaps I only imagined that conversation.
My father concurred.
I wrote a few pieces myself last year. They didn’t amount to much. Expecting less time available for same these coming months, but feel an urgency to talk to someone, something, a screen.
I could take on a new persona, but if I become disconnected, I will just drift.
I need prompting.
Here is a resolution. I will bear witness to a stone’s worth of truth each and every day. Whatever shines may find its way to this page.