to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result

another bumbling evening in the cool and awkward twilight i found myself mealy-mouthed and introducing myself as a film maker to strangers. i conversed at what i thought was a regular volume, but was interrupted by the excitement of strange cheeses and chickens, people turned away from the middle of my sentences and i spoke into the vine and ivy covered backyard like i'd intended to address it all along.
then a real artist showed up with half her head shaved and tattoos and she spends all of her time in a studio. some of them live in a canyon. some of them have two homes. some of them teach others. and i feel like i've trespassed. so i sneak to the front yard. careful to close the gate because of the chickens. the front yard with the flat wooden swing. and i am back and forth. the half moon above, blocked by a skeletal branch, now free. then blocked again. and the spring smell budding behind me. we are oil and water. i will keep trying to mix us, but we'll settle and separate on either side of that rusty fence.