Noodles, Basements and Lead Paint

Tate the roomate licked the wall tonight. Be careful, I replied. There be lead in them walls.
The university warned us, I said
But the realization comes too late:
we be rebels in this house.

She does enough yoga to survive one wall lick here and there, I decide. And I don't want to be the one to suppress her proclivities. Not to mention we both took a shot of apple cider vinegar earlier this evening. We've got crazy things moving through our systems. Rioters in an empty street.
I took that line from a Kings of Convenience song. Or maybe an entire album.

I started my blog this earlier this evening by writing about feminism and the words of Kalide Edib and Benazir Bhutto, but I realized in the process that these are subjects that my mind doesn't fully contain, and so a post-midnight blog on the subject might lead me to make suggestions or allusions that don't fully add up or give insight into my honest situation/set of beliefs. blah blah blah. Basically I must not be a genuine woman-of-the-blog yet, because I can't properly sift my thoughts into word form at a moments notice. Somewhere along the line I have developed the conclusion that good blogresses are efficient, clairvoyant, and exceedingly charming. (The last one is more of a rhetorical/inception statement, where I fish for your thoughts to retaliate against my self doubt and mentally assure me of my aforementioned efficiency, perspicacity, and good looks/charm/general wit. I can already feel your inceptioned {not a real word yet but lets be honest it will be} vibes coming my direction, and I thank you. Internet vibes!)

I ask you to imagine a woman in a kitchen. She is making noodles. The long and beautiful Italian kind. The dough is being fed through a device that strains the noodles into the long and beautiful whole grain figures that you will eventually see on your plate. Before this process the dough is just regular dough. indelicate, hardy, might make an okay pancake or something.

Metaphor Alert.

My mind is like the pre-noodled dough. A Real Blogger can and will use her mind to write a blog like noodle dough through a noodle device. At any time - day or night.
Can you see it? Eh I'm not Italian anyways...

What I am, however, is a musician. But only just. And I admit this now only to transition you from noodles to a memory from my day. Sitting in the Ballard basement of J,S,T,P, and D, I had a really good moment. We had set up all the gear and passed out a few lyric sheets. Taylor had divulged his intricate but well working melody and subsequent harmonies. I sat on the couch and did my part. While we were bringing his piece to life, in a jazzy key of c, Sirens pervaded from 15th street. Something about the feeling of being tucked away in a cold subterranean nook, crowded with dear people, a single heater, amps and a couch caught my heart for a moment. The safety of that environment juxtaposed the invading sirens and caught me off guard. Tilted me out of my natural course just long enough to allow me to notice the contentedness of my situation, the happiness to be there creating with friends. Internal instead of external, with fresh cold and crazy march raging all around us.

Sometimes we are pitched from the ruts we dig.

And it is a breath of cool basement air, for a moment.