It is 7:43 a.m. and I am up and at it and mulling over the same thought that put me to bed. For me, I consider thoughts like these both nagging and relevant. The nagging must be my subconscious imploring the relevance. In praise of directness: The genuis of music is itchiny every lump and bump and crease of my brain. This is because I am thinking of capital A Art.

When I was in college I was pretty sure I had some things figured out. Post college living and post graduate study taught me otherwise. Nonetheless, I can't help but think fondly about the last year and a half of college. That was the time that I was happy and confused and insecure at the same time. I wasn't sure about who I was as a person or what would become of me and my insecurity raged and raged like a bad case of crabs, but, back then, one thing was constantly on my mind: What is the highest Art form? Back then, I argued for poetry. I figured somebody in this culture needed to argue on behalf of poetry. In my then mind I figured, I knew, poetry was the great informant telling the human soul that it had a soul. I remember sitting in a kitchen in Maryville, Missouri with a girl who loved me and loved listening and talking about the highest art form. She was a sculpter and poet and nonfiction writer. I was a guy who was new to poetry who lived inside my mind for the most part. She knew about Art and had this amazing talent ot draw someone perfectly then write a stunning poem about what it was like to draw that person, the ability to write a poem about that so that the reader actually gave a shit about the person drawing and the person being drawn. The two of us talked and talked and talked about Art. In truth, the more we talked about Art the more we didn't have to talk about how we were growing resentful of each other. In truth, we were living high on the hog. We were in college and living on loans and playing house and all utopias come to an end. She gave up on me. I gave up on her. We gave up on us. Neither of us gave up on Art even after I moved to Minnesota and she moved to Texas.

I came to Minnesota to pursue a Masters degree in writing poetry. After break, my Masters degree has sixteen more weeks to it. Wham-bam-thank-ya-mam. Here comes the caboos to this train of thought: the purest art form, the most informant art form is one in which I am hardly capable of producing, music.

All writing is a shy attempt when compared to music. Music can transfix and derrange the mind. Very few works of writing can do that without someone wanting to take a break, get a drink of water, or scratch themselves. How many people take a break from concert? I'll add more to these thoughts later. As for now, I am off to listen to music and dream myself into the songs.