Summer Rain

"I remember to this day
The bright red Georgia clay
How it stuck to the tires
After the summer rain."

I slept well, and woke to my alarm at 6:20 to find a gentle rain falling over the village. It's nice and cool in my bedroom now, where a week ago it was very humid. I pulled on a polo shirt to keep the breeze off my shoulders. I made a cup of coffee, and went looking for pants. (Priorities, I has 'em.)

Three hours later, the rain has stopped, and so has the noisy woodpecker in my neighbour's garden. The sun is shining, and there are voluptuous clouds over Torbay, like Magritte used to paint. I'd say the wind is coming from the West.

Georgia must have a similar geology to where I live. The earth around here is very red - the Devonian layer, if you're into geology. And now I'm thinking of another song:

"They call Alabama
the Crimson Tide:
call me Deacon Blues"

Straight Talk, No Chaser

His talent was as natural as the pattern
that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings.
At one time he understood it
no more than the butterfly did
and he did not know when it was brushed or marred.

Later he became conscious
of his damaged wings and their construction
and he learned to think and could not fly any more
because the love of flight was gone
and he could only remember
when it had been effortless.
(Hemingway, on Fitzgerald)

F. Scott Fitzgerald was a self-destructive alcoholic who was dead at forty-four. He also wrote some of the most wonderful novels and short stories I have ever read. That's why I cherish his memory, and seek to follow this piece of advice when it comes to my own talent.

Self Portrait

Bo Diddley Was a Gunslinger

I can't remember a time when I didn't know the Bo Diddley riff.

That jink -a- jink -a- jink shuffle followed me round in my childhood and my teens. It kept turning up on the radio, in the Rolling Stones' 'Not Fade Away', in The Who's 'Magic Bus', in The Smiths' 'How Soon Is Now', in U2's 'Desire'.

I don't know anyone who can do a Mick Jagger impersonation without thinking of him wiggling his little butt and shaking a pair of maracas. I can't even think of maracas without hearing the Bo Diddley beat. Shave and a haircut, two bucks.

Bo Diddley was a true original, and his groove will live forever. Distracted as a fourteen year old with a hard on, and powerful as a steam train.

In Solitude

This is me, this week. I like it here.