Searching.

I'm searching for pretty things, things to curl up inside: fanciful notions, beautiful songs, perfect arrangements of words, sleep. I'm finding them, kind of. Because I'm still restless. My brain is asking, maybe too gently, what are you hiding from? Lots, it turns out. Little dark monsters niggling at the edge of my cozy spaces. Go away, monsters. Let me live here.

A few weeks ago my husband and I were listening to a playlist that I called my 10 Favorite Songs. There are 11 on the list - and actually, I made the list a few years ago and it needs to be updated. The songs are kind of all over the place. "Devil Woman" by Charles Mingus and "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen and "Complete Control" by the Clash. There's Arcade Fire and Spoon and Interpol. I was trying to pin down the thread that connects them all, and I eventually did: these songs are full of spaces that either invite you to rest or invite you to destroy -- shred the spaces up or live inside them for a bit. Either is a form of celebration.

Stop hiding. That's the answer, right? Or if I'm hiding, it should be as a form of celebration, like the songs in my favorite songs list. This sounds almost nonsensical, I know that, but think about this: If you're hiding somewhere (in the space of a song, for example) in a place that makes you stop and think, a place that pulls you into a moment where you exist only to appreciate where you are - that's a celebration, isn't it? Of life and living and the infinite finality of it all.

Or maybe that still makes no sense. I don't know; I'm tired. Here's a picture.