I found my way to the Windsor depot today and what a treat to receive your letter and parcel of girl scout cookies. The cookies were delicious and to answer your questions:
1) yes I think using your dwindling inheritance to open a poorly planned restaurant is an excellent idea.
2) no, my schedule does not allow I listen to the new or any Pink Floyd album.
3) ‘candor’ and a ‘can do attitude’ rarely sync.
4) no, I have not heard from Bass Mike
I carry on here on the hinterland, steeling myself for the ticking down disasters that weigh on my pride and ever growing crop.
I have grown real wings. Then moved to an Undersea Kingdom.
The skills I gained back on the farm (song structure, salt-on-the-table lyrical imagery, good hook making and melody) go starving in this town of dance remixes and (shudder) jazz.
I came to share and communicate and be one with the people. But I am cursed cause I don’t know how to get the ladies on the floor. Cause I can’t vamp a chicken dance if you spotted me a beak and feathers. Cause I don’t know the traditionals like ‘Mustang Sally’ and ‘Whose Makin’ To Your Old Lady (While You Were Out Making Love)’.
I came to provide that soundtrack to a thousand personal victories and horrors, freeze dried in time, awaiting an audience that relates to them. Maybe even needs them, requires them. But I fill my choruses with too many words, I fear, I ignore natural rhythms for 6 more syllables.
While the world goes about its business and gets on the dance floor for the repetitive verses of ‘In The Midnight Hour’. Which gets played morning, noon and night, 365, 24/7.
Repetition is Hell, someone brighter once spoke. It certainly wasn’t Wilson Pickett.
And I soldier on, my optimism dinged up but functioning. I have one thing I was brought here to do. Too late to go back to school.
Emma….think on me, when time allows. See me here with my hands in the dirt trying to dig….something. Panning for gold in dead river beds.
PS: No, I don’t use Twitter. It sounds like an endless bazaar of bullshit.