now now

i'm writing these words on the front porch of my new home new pines in central, minneapolis.
there's a black pitbull named Warhol next to me on the front steps, and my housemate Will is clacking away on a more genuine machine, a suitcase typewriter. Rosemary's trying to jimmy the lock on the mailbox.
Today was the warmest day yet, and though I spent the majority of it working inside the coffee shop, the heat of summer is tingling my toes and giving my bones some light.
from the soles of my feet, which ache from the cowboy boots i danced in on the treacherous basement floor of the Tardcore Compound, to the top of my head which is still crusty with pink gloppy paint. There's glitter in my underwear, and a sweet feeling of self-love rockin my socks.
Its been a good couple weeks back in Minneapolis, the best ever in fact.
A new scheme is brewing, that has nothing to do with England.
More with carpentry and ceramics, and Spanish lessons. Winter in Costa Rica.
I can feel myself making a conscious choice to be happy and sane, productive and true to myself.
This neighborhood feels like it has so much potential, so many opportunities. I wanna ride away from the sunrise every morning here, and wake up with a life to love. Can I get a hell yeah?