Like a politician and his decoy, no one has ever seen my two halves standing in the same room. You'll either meet the expressor or the muse - the dreamer or the actuator - the poet or the sharpener of pencils.
I've been in a firmly pragmatic mode for a handful of months, manhandling my way through a morass of short-term goals. Suddenly, I have the sense that I can relax that iron grip and start letting myself slip into poetry. The feeling was long-awaited.
It's raining in Los Angeles.
I've always loved downtown in the rain. It makes the florescent interiors of the noodle shops beam with appeal, and it forces pedestrians out of tank tops and jeans and into tidy-looking coats, hats, and bobbing umbrellas.
From my perch in the stone-swathed apartment complex that looms over Grand Central Market, the charcoal of the wide night sky and the water on the streets makes me feel as though I'm captaining a slow-moving ship, surrounded by a sister fleet, following a chart built on this constellation of multiply reflected streetlights.