The floor needs sweeping.  Clothes piled on the bed, will I fold them, will I move them to a chair, will I manage to put them away?  Clutter of life in a small room, piles of papers, cd accumalation, chords and plugs and old batteries...stuff of consequence with no value to a flea.  Putting off the disposal of things, sorting, moving, shifting...what a chore...and the empty space is always filled with more.

Meanwhile, what matters?  Guitars?  The one in the pic on my "default" is a 57 harmony, as old as me.  It followed me from Cambridge after years of separation. Originally I played it, when I was passing through Cambridge in the years when I was a homeless hobo troubador with no place to go back to...It came out of the closet of a gentleman who's home I crashed in, who inherited it from a furniture moving job.  I dunno, maybe it was 1982?  I didn't take it with me cause it wasn't mine when I hitched to San Francisco with E who had taken responsiblity for my pregnant homeless hapless self ..... oh the connections, the story so deep... this guitar so very special...  E, brought it back to me here  in California some time ago back in the 1990's.  E's another brilliant tale, what an angel hobo... passing though from time to time, in the nick of time. I ran into him again, after missing a 2nd bus on a bad public transit day, this past Friday, after seems like a year gone by...we meet again.  Ain't life grand?

I have been thinking, reoccurringly, about how much life one can live in 50 years.  It is as if 1,000,000 lifetimes have gone by.  I feel as though I have died and been reborn infinately.

I have been thinking, it comes up frequently, about how death is not an issue, it's moot, nothing there to fear

 it's life that is freaky and scary and important.  Now while we are alive, shine, do, create, bless, love, taste, give, heal, teach, touch, smell, look, see, feel, walk, talk, contribute, wake up. live, I'm alive!!! I'm alive!!!  Death pah!  Kay Sera Sera.

There's a fly buzzing round the room. It's a restless afternoon.  I'm looking out across the rooftops to the high green hill blocking my horizon.  The sky is blue, it's cool and a breeze is blowing. 

Sometimes it seems like every word is a song waiting to be written.  More often, it's just a ramble, a tangle, a blackberry patch without fruit tripping me up in my meandering. 

So I waunder out into the street searching the eyes of people I know for a hint, a sign, a flicker of recognition.  I'm looking for a welcome mat, an open door where I can sit at the table and laugh with the crowd as we down a beer in a conspiracy of comraderie. 

But I don't drink beer and I'm getting bored. I get this feeling I'm an alien intruder as I circle around like a fly in the room with no where to land. 

I hitched to New York city in 1976. A wide-eyed farm town girl, a "Michigan Hillbilly", following Woody Guthrie's trail, looking for a little of Dylan's magic.  I sang Joan Byaz's "Diamonds & Rust" in Greenwich Village, my voice lost in the crowd of other street musicians, voices overlapping like coincentric circles, like raindrops in a mudpuddle, a cacaphony of bull frogs croaking Dylan tunes. 

An angry young girl all in black, her hair spiking like a freaked out cat, her shirt torn and pinned, in army boots and wearing a dogs spiked collar took my guitar to show me a tune.  She screamed like a banshee and beat my little accoustic like it was a rug on a line.   Then she handed me my instrument and spat "that's where it's at" and waved her hand in contempt at all the Dylan wanna be's.  "That's the past"

I hitched out of New York the next day and came to California, chasing after Jack Keroac, searching for the scene, looking for the flower children, the free thinkers, the poets, the lovers & the dreamers.  But the hippies were gone, moved on. 

But you know, Everything comes around again, and here I am present and accounted for. 

Follow your Dream.

Kimrea