Today

We will fly way up high where the cold wind blows.

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Marty Balin was a name I learned when I was just starting high school. Surrealistic Pillow, one of five or six albums I owned and played every single day. Today I think of the meaning of that title. and I think, yes, indeed, I do lay down upon and raise my head from the surrealism of these days.

These days I sit and think alot about the things that i forgot to do…. I feel like pleasing you more than before.

I lay down my arms, I lay you down in my arms, I am not armed, and I am preparing. I am doing little tasks left undone all year long and maybe longer. I have toted books and posters up to the attic. I have washed the towels and jeans and I even moped the ceiling. That’s not easy, let me tell you. But it gets dusty up there and the dust falls on you when you are sleeping on your surrealistic pillow. In dreams you locked me in the closet it smelled like cinnamon. ( a poem from my college year book). I am making granola this morning… oh yeah! Cinnamon. See how it is all connected. I like to think this is a connection to a day away. Only a day, only a day, only a day away…..

Sal Bernardi wrote that most beautiful song and I recorded it for a demo. i wonder if i can find it put it up for people. meantime…. the ritual of the surreal….

“Ghostyhead come sit down on the porch…a serpent caught in a fishers net, virgins light the torch. “

My thoughts are a jumble of song and advertisement, poem book and friendship. Perhaps election day, and the coming epic birthday have me in a kind of alert… like a little meerkat democrat hoping day does not bring disaster to my clan. my clan is not the long hairs, the pot smokers, the socialists. My clan is the American - all of those things and also the baseball players, the waitresses, the short haired service men who write music for the service men overseas, the recovered drug addicts and the retired alcoholics and the organic farmers as well as the Sikh cab drivers seeking a better life here in the USA< born in northern India, or Ethiopia, or born and raised in Michigan. they are my clan too. And this is the end of the devise of the happy old days as a rally point for racism strain that has captured white mens indignant brainzzzz - (as if white men are stupider and more susceptible than other men - according to the newscasts young white males may vote Trump in. They were never hipsters, cool cats, part of youth, a new light a new day - no matter how many pony tails and tattoos they sport. They are part of the same old fraternity. ) I don’t believe the news reports about those men any more than I believe it is going to be a close ‘race’ today. I believe in my people. They would not allow it to be close.

What a song my brain is singing, cries so loud, casts her wild note and vote over water and sky.

What it means to love is that you stay even when it has become a thing you did not make, grown into a shape you do not recognize, and you are not sure how to save it, so you just keep feeding and watering until you know what to do. we can Remember ourselves.

It’s taken so long to come true. And it’s all for you. all for you….