�In truth, I don't care whether the music sounds new or old: I just want it to have ambition and exuberance, a lack of self-consciousness, a recognition of the redemptive power of noise, an acknowledgment that emotional intelligence is sometimes best articulated through a great chord change, rather than a furrowed brow.�

He�s just full of such lovely brilliance, and he gives me hope that I won�t somehow end up listening to the same music over and over for the rest of my life. Rock isn�t just for the kids, and I am not destined to listen to something labeled �classic rock.�

It�s been an odd sort of week, but it�s ending with nice surprises. As I peered out the windows in the spare room this morning, I saw a lovely array of antiques and junk being strewn about for a yard sale, so I stopped off there after my run. If I had time, money and space, I would�ve snatched up the old brass bed parts, which needed side rails and much cleaning. There was an old hunchback trunk that needed lots of work, but the tin was intact, as were the interior trays. But what stole my heart was the old Victrola, which surely didn�t work, but which would make such a lovely conversation piece. I didn�t feel the need to buy, given my antiques purchases of last weekend (oh, for a camera to show you my fantastic vintage Bakelite box purse, which is getting rave reviews all over town), but it was delicious to peer out the window and watch the scene unfold.

And though I think it�s my turn to mow, someone downstairs seems to have given up on me and decided to do it herself, so there�s one thing to take off my list for tomorrow. Given that the heat index was 85 degrees just before 10 am this morning and that we don�t have any hopes for improvement this weekend, I�m pretty pleased to not have to mow.

Yesterday was one of those strange days where I�m minding my own business, maybe making small talk, when a coworker informs me I need to go. Leave. Move myself out of my beloved Midwest. I never know quite where it�s coming from, but each time it�s happened, it�s had such a ring of truth to it that I�m unwilling to ask questions. I�d rather take it for a sign. A fact. He suggested Arizona, Kentucky or California, even bringing me a picture of the Mojave, instructing me to hang it up and think about it. I guess I spend so much time pushing people back behind the white line on the bus floor, it shocks me when someone breaches the sanctity of distance and shows insight into my life.

I think the p-t job will end soon. I need to conserve cash, pay my car insurance, buy a license sticker, etc., but yet it seems unbearable to think of going back home to that stifling apartment tonight. Miss P and I shall instead go cool off to a happy hour band. Or two. I swear I was wearing both a sweater and a jacket at this time last week. I�d like to have that back, please. See what you can do.