Comfortable silence over pasta and fish.
Small fingers bending like ski slopes on the heavy keys of the piano.
The scent of evergreens on street corners.
Having to look at it again through the eyes of a beginner, I see how much goes into piano-playing. Learning to identify the keys, learning to read the notes, developing the coordination in the hands. It's difficult. A love of music is a large part of what sees you through.
The jingle bell sounds are the panhandlers rattling their cups.
Trees aren't dead in winter. They're expressive in ways they can't be when covered in leaves.
People behaving foolishly, young people who don't think things out well enough, are stuck with their indiscretions: photographs floating around the web, videos, comments that can't be deleted. Like having to walk around everywhere with several squares of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of their shoes.
They write dirty words on the convenience store window, fingers to the condensation on the glass, then run off giggling.
The dribbles of frozen yogurt, melting under the dispensers, look like a chemical goop. Something so delicious reveals itself as deeply unappetizing.
The night is crackling with lights, in trees, in windows.
Who thought it would be a good idea to make a recording of Jingle Bells with dog barks?
Dodging down aisles that smell of cheese and curry, I narrowly avoid a shopping cart to the stomach.
No promises and vows, just enjoyment of the present.
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, stabbed out patiently with one finger to the keyboard. There's the G, there's the A, living among the cluster of three black keys.