To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. – Allen Ginsberg
First thought, my second favorite holiday. The highs are so high and the lows can be so low.
Some years in February you stick your neck out and see six more days/weeks/months/years alone, some years you don’t.
Next, for a guy born in the first half of the previous century, that number looks like something out of a sci-fi novel.
2021.
I can feel every year.
But I don’t remember much.
Remember I was so inspired by the beatnik generation.
At the time, I was being held hostage by two government employees in a small village in the New York woods.
Actually saw the first stoplight go in.
Excessive church. Entirely Anglo-Saxon. Teachers in suits.
Not exactly conservative, just the way they’d always been. Set in their ways.
If only the Beats weren’t so often so embarrassing.
Embarrassing, sure, but just as often they poked a hole in the curtains.
My mother has been dead seven years now and I’m betting she still hates the bongos.
Fire. (Be My Valentine)
Just the two of us,
bota of white wine,
Chick Corea softly.
Big dog nearby.