When the wind won’t blow…

…there ain’t much to distract me. The house won’t stink, the dog won’t bark, and the wife won’t redecorate. It’s a little after midnight and the rain is falling straight down. There’s no Spring breeze to push it on to the window and remind me that I don’t really want to be outside. There is no Spring wind to howl though the cracks of my suburban tract home’s vinyl siding and make me think the world is coming to a damned end.

It’s this kind of quiet that drives temperate men to drink. It’s this kind of quiet that inspires a mad artist. My most profound art floats midway up in a bottle of something amber.

It is this kind of quiet that could make a man feel grandiose if he weren’t so unsure of himself. My grandiosity peaked too early today. It waned as I cleaned in preparation for a parental visit. It is gone now as I sit–much too awake–in a pair of ripped jeans in front of this night’s only companion.

I own three guitars and two toothbrushes. I only need one of both. But…toothbrushes wear out and guitars do not.

I keep books after I read them, knowing full well–with the exception of a very good few–I will never re-read them.

Untalented people are self-destructive because they have no hope of finding talent. Talented people self-destruct because they are afraid they will never escape their talent. The people in between help the other two groups along.

Arrogance is the worst human quality that is actually useful.

When the wind won’t blow, my mind won’t work.

Apparently, creativity’s engine is a windmill.