Machine, I’ve made us a brand new kind of writing hole.  All I need is a lap desk.  Parked in the Accent.  Total privacy, music, climate control, windows, permission, mobility.  I think of handmade mobile homes, truly mobile units that roll down the road as a matter of being, that are total houses.  Personally, I loved nothing more than living in the back of my pickup, even if the topper didn’t match.  The Accent is like a go-kart, it’s like a really big, hard-wall purse, like a magic carpet tent.  It’s zippy, it’s clean and firm, I am half a tank away from having to buy my third tank of gas since I bought the car.  Whatever might be the reasons I make so much driving, probably because I just like it like a perv, I like to drive the car.  Let me drive, I like to steer, no okay, you drive, I like it when you drive.  Say Yes again, Machine.

One more thing I need, a car charger.  Check it, the after market heated seats work, as does the radio, with the key in the battery position, without the running lights outside so I won’t have to tell agitated drivers one after the other that I am not leaving the parking space.  I will outfit the mobile writing hole Accent with snacks and drinks.  And Husten Perlen if it ever comes back to the apothecary.

We will call the Accent the Mystery Ship.  The Silver Seed.  My heart is still on fire.

Truly I am parked in a cell-less zone, this place on Wilson, and also down on Montrose south of Wells Park, cellular sinkhole.  Because of nothing, right, so I ask myself what sort of thing is in the library or sticking straight up in the air, invisible like the raised arms of a train signal.

Seated in the Silver Seed, not enduring Cat Power’s opening act, I like the mystery ship, I like it parked, I check the e-brake for potential injury risks.  I squint, and lean forward looking for the smokers of intermission.  I hope I don’t see them, because the Seed has heated seats, and almost no one imminent.  If I wanted, machine I could plug in my phone and get the music out of another set of numbers.  I want to know how sound translates so accurately electronically – what thing inside the radio is able to make the sound of the voice, the timbre, the details, it must be just the wire alone, the cardboard cone being for amplification only.  The entire voice is whispered around the wire as electricity, whatever mysterious matter is it in the air?  Numbers.  Only because they are as simple as possible, without being too simple, to borrow a quote from Albert Einstein.  I wonder if I can get Chinese delivery in my parked car.

Later

Why shouldn’t I sit in the Seed even post-concert.  I think Cat Power finds it probably very painful to live, and that we should hold elevated thoughts for her, she has a golden fleecy voice, verily.  Peace peace

Like the drive through the tornadoes, I pull on and off the page, not because I am so maverick, but because there is nowhere else to go