I’m writing a book. I wish. To just settle in, with my four hours of daily discipline, then walking and ruminating through remaining times of meals, and exercises, and visits with like minds. Crafting exquisite phrases, ferreting forgotten but sublime roots of language that bloom and thrill, as satisfying as an astounding and controlled physical feat, or a simple, nourishing meal taken from the plentiful earth.
I wish, but I cannot. The writers that have preceded me have eyes that see beyond my lenses, and words, knowledge, and experience that make me seem like a dog, romping on the beach diving into waves time and again, changing nothing. My brain can offer nothing to bequeath to hungry readers. I only marvel at what others produce, and prance in the freedom of the joyful dog.
But if I can't be a writer, at least I can sing a little bit. I will be performing at the San Pancho Music Festival in Mexico next Sunday, Feb. 26, and then on March 24 at the Old Mill, Toronto. Here's an advance picture of meself on the SP stage, (more to follow after the event), and then some pics of the lovely apartment that I inhabit here: