I felt the first bitter chill of fall in the air this evening. It seems like just moments ago that Flora knocked a plastic cup of icy sangria onto my ankles during a thunderstorm in July. Then she cut my hair while a crowd gathered. It was in a barn, and before long, the sisters came and scolded us for getting too close to the sun. And now there’s a chill.
I’ll rinse it soon, don’t worry. I need to look pretty for tomorrow’s basic tracking. One more song, and then it’s back to my day job as a test subject. I won’t feel let down for too long. It’s been a bloody recording session. I actually put my shoes back on to play drums on a new song which I like to call “He makes a happy party,” when low and behold I realize that my bare foot had crushed a bug. I actually had blood on my heel.
I reminded me of conservative windbag Curt Schilling. Gross.
The song does actually have a nice title that I refuse to acknowledge at this point in time. I was sitting behind the drum set crying over the bug when it occurred to me that if I said a prayer and lit a candle I could call it a sacrifice (an offering to my muse and former nanny) and I knew that I would go on to stomp that bass drum with tenacity.
I’m going to visit my mom and dad on Saturday. They live in RI, and I may spend a few hours at Hazard’s beach. The water is still pretty cold. My mother will offer to pay for a haircut. I may take her up on it. It’s important to look nice.
