Sometimes, I wanna post something, but have no immediate ideas. This time, I don;t even have a photo.
What I do have is music blaring. X, live at the Whiskey a Gogo. Guitar blaring songs I have known for 30 years. This morning I saw a guitar on the way to breakfast, a turquoise Fender stratocaster (among others, but the one my kids immediately keyed in on) on the way to breakfast. All it took was their second look to make me covet it as I have not wanted any musical instrument. My kids play piano (and ukelele a little bit), but the sudden urge to drop half a kilobuck on an electric guitar is at once compelling and aimless.
Also, I have images of rocks every time I close my eyes. I spent the weekend looking at rocks. Small ones, worn round by glaciers and Puget Sound, pebbles sitting on quarter-inch hardware cloth, washed clean by a jet of water, among which hide shards and sherds, and only we archaeologists know which is which.
The energy of hunger and rock and roll (call it punk if you wanna), drives me to write, as a soup borne of whatever-is-around (miso, german sausage, leftover roasted Ozette potatoes, celery, nettler, sesame oil, a scayttering o grits, past-due hunger, and maybe something else) simmers at the lowest setting. Maybe, given my lack of focus, theme, and intent, I should just eat.
What I do have is music blaring. X, live at the Whiskey a Gogo. Guitar blaring songs I have known for 30 years. This morning I saw a guitar on the way to breakfast, a turquoise Fender stratocaster (among others, but the one my kids immediately keyed in on) on the way to breakfast. All it took was their second look to make me covet it as I have not wanted any musical instrument. My kids play piano (and ukelele a little bit), but the sudden urge to drop half a kilobuck on an electric guitar is at once compelling and aimless.
Also, I have images of rocks every time I close my eyes. I spent the weekend looking at rocks. Small ones, worn round by glaciers and Puget Sound, pebbles sitting on quarter-inch hardware cloth, washed clean by a jet of water, among which hide shards and sherds, and only we archaeologists know which is which.
The energy of hunger and rock and roll (call it punk if you wanna), drives me to write, as a soup borne of whatever-is-around (miso, german sausage, leftover roasted Ozette potatoes, celery, nettler, sesame oil, a scayttering o grits, past-due hunger, and maybe something else) simmers at the lowest setting. Maybe, given my lack of focus, theme, and intent, I should just eat.
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