I keep trying to listen to Songs for a Blue Guitar, but I have to turn it off so the immediate and complicated mix of memory and emotion doesn't get ruined by the banality of this silly work I'm cranking out. It's a big thing to unpack, everything that album brings me. I'm saving it like Halloween Candy.

(Which is saying a lot, because I usually eat that crap all in one sitting.)

Maybe next time,

Catt

You're not solving a damn thing.

Sincerely,

Catt

Sometimes I wish my job wasn't about stringing words together, so my work soundtrack could include more songs with distractingly awesome lyrics. It is with regret that I close this Elliot Smith album; the mood of it could not be more right on this rainy morning but I know that keeping it on would be straight-up sabotage to the part of this day that pays my bills.

Needle in the Hay,

Catt

Thanks for waking me up in the middle of the night just to hand me my
glasses from the night stand. Given the choice, I would have preferred
to have them in one piece instead of two; morning light instead of
black of night, but I suppose it's the thought that counts. Someday
you won't be small and eager, and I'll miss this little you that you
are, path of destruction and all.

Thanks again,

Mama

Sent from my iPhone

You're so important to me-- helping me become a better-informed citizen of my world every morning and afternoon, a bookend to my workday.
But the habit of you has edged out the experience of rocking the hell out on my way to work, which I will be from this day forward making an effort to re-incorporate into my routine. Maybe not every day, but more. Definitely more. Definitely Mondays.
Thanks to these guys, circa 1999, for bringing me back to my senses on that one, and thanks to A. for leaving the CD in my car.

Turn it up,

Catt

I told you my story about today's 4-step process of stinking everyone out of the kitchen at work with my funk leftovers, and my subsequent overly descriptive email apologies.

You said, "This stuff only happens to you. You live this life of low-grade fiasco, like a lovable Larry David."

Well put.

Love,

Catt

I've seen you all summer out there where Woodland meets 11th, singing and preaching and pointing. It's been a hot summer and still you insist on that white suit and wide-brimmed black hat, a tall lanky stick in Sunday clothes and shined shoes, an old-fashioned tent revival of one, plucked from the pews and placed smack in the middle of traffic on a workday. A message. A messenger.

You glisten and bead and puddle. You point your long dark fingers at every one of us passing by; not judging, just delivering. Good news, bad news, a verse and chorus. Whatever strikes your fancy, whatever you say.

I just passed by your corner on my way home for lunch. Seems you've found a lawn chair and a beautiful, flowing purple choir robe.
I'm into it.

Amen,

Catt

You two are both truly koo-koo bananas! I mean, wow!

In constant amazement,

Catt

THIS is how I feel about your edamame hummus.

Cheers,

Catt

It's a crying damn shame that I have to either be half-sick or have a
sick and needy child stuck to me in order to experience you.

Delightful, though, when it happens. Today was.

Cheers,

Catt

Sent from my iPhone