Sunday morning, I wake up to a rain washed sky and air that is steadily become cooler. There is so much silence at this window and more than silence, stilness. This in the place of last night's agitation. How soon the stroms pass, the rain falls and the sun comes out. Everything is it's place.

Last evening I spent wandering around the bookstore. I walked down to it, a distance of a little over 4 miles. That road, Ponce, depresses me every time I walk down it. Whores, winos, drug pushers, staring vacant eyes, deep blue eyes behind a veil of smoke, probing asking a question, what do you want and how much will you pay for that? Folks shuffling down the stained sidewalks, "Howdy brother? Got a dollar?". Smell: there is a smell to that road, smell of smoke, urine, of vomit, of spilt beer. I was thinking of De Niro in "The Taxidriver" and his dialogue, "I wish that these streets are washed clean".

But then I caught myself, am I any different from these shells, these hulks that were floating up and down the street? Don't the same rivers, except maybe in a transformed sense run within me? I am listening to Tracy Chapman's New Begining as I write this and as I do, I recall the various emotions that were coursing through my body. Anger, humilation, lounging and loneliness. Are there any different from what those winos on the street feel, day in and day out? This is too much noise and I am tuning out for now. On to Tracy's beutiful song....

........remembering your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace I will find my way back to you, please say that "I will be waiting for you"......