Paying My Rent…

The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds
Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day;
But on the ground, among the hooting crowds,
He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.

– Les fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil).

A good friend of mine has spent some nine months hibernating while finishing an album and working on his serotonin levels… He’s a dear friend to me. I consider his family.

He came over for dinner last night which turned in to some nine hours of catch-up banter, and then some four more this morning upon waking.

We spoke a lot of music and the nature of riding the up-and-down wave of all things depressive.

Of striking a balance.

Finding a steady path. Or at least feeling steady about life going up and down.

He reminded me of the feature film, Control.

And I reminded him of that chapter in Richard Branson’s book about Mike Oldfield and his big, shy Tubular Bells.

Then he pulled a wee Nintendo DS out of his bag, replete with Korg DS-10 cartridge and we spent the morning drinking black coffee, while he learned me how to play.

There were big hugs by the end of it all.

And so we continue to pay our rent in the tower of song.





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