We're out here, the wedding was fantastic, Paula's family is a riotous blast of hilarity, and we've been sort of camping out in the yard--and in Eben with wild turkeys and coyotes and dense woods it's quite like camping in the wilderness--which is fun like being young again and the tent would be popped up. Last night we slept in the Knaus camper, the Hornet, which was a good time, too, and leftover Capn's and Coke and the rain came back but we were able to spend some time with Coors Light in Au Train on the beach there, which stretches from the river bend out to Lake Superior, pushed and pulled between the two.
There isn't any point here, or purpose, just a bit of narrative on a Tuesday evening before dinner. But the purpose is somewhere in here, hanging on bits of wind and it went off with my recently discovered bovine friends who scuttled off as quickly as they could when the weather shifted.
Gone for now, it'll be back as I collect thoughts. I could post here about my new ideas: the chronology of composition, the identity dialect, the end of the world and the beginning of something brighter. But no. Just music and a bit about my book, until I feel more inspired, maybe later. Maybe some pictures and it feels nice to blog again, actually, if that's a verb now.
Oh, it is. But the way I do it, I don't do it much differently than writing in a document or in my hardcover notebook or mashing something out on my father's typewriter salvaged from Spear & Son's lumber.
I want sentimentality and meaning combined. I don't want to be fleeting like a sunrise but have that shine. I don't want to be stale like an axiom but I want that gravity.
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