“The thing for us to do is just to do our duty, and not worry about whether anybody sees us do it or not.” ~ Mark Twain
It is said that the only mockingbird that sings at night is the young unmated male. Well, that rascal is out there as we speak, down in the arroyo that runs through this property, up in the Chinese elm tree. Is that true? I can’t rightly say, but they say so, and y’all know how they are. I guess that makes it a truism, eh? Yup, says me. It’s best to share impressions of beauty. I am no longer young, although I do have my moments, but mockingbirds still thrill me anyway. Dude like sing on for me dude.
A fresh cup of coffee at my right side, the dog asleep in his mama’s bedroom, soft ambient music playing through the Dish Sirius network, deep feelings of loss, I’m shaky as well, the loss having stayed where it is for so long. What if, what if? Never mind, eh. Could it work again? I may never know. All is well. That’s what they say. Soft tinkly piano music. Feels like some kind of French existential scene, and I am simply going to have to take it in, out, whatever. How’s my melancholy working for ya, my friends? At least I have all the components to do it right. I am smiling because I am well-practiced, I know how to do it right. Lucky me.
The charming mess that is my life awaits me just beyond the sacred song that the piper at the gates of dawn will so faithfully provide. I like to think that Carol King will provide accompaniment on piano. Boy howdy I want the best.
Waves of nearly coherent anxiety wash through me as if they might be tickling the white sands in northwestern Florida. My anxiety waves are rarely this consistent. Usually they are jagged and harsh. Yesterday was a bad day. What lesson can I derive from the day?
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.