I don't usually let them smile, of course. . . .
A day back at work, a night at the gym, a trip to the grocery, a shower, a glass of wine, and the cooking of the evening meal. Dinner in front of the television watching two Mandolin Orange concerts on YouTube. That group is fucking me up. I began my period watching them. I tried to watch the national mania (football), but I got bored and just wanted my blanky, so I headed off to the bedroom where I played some weepy songs on my guitar, then put on this station and lay my head down to sleep (and if I die before I wake. . .). Then I don't know what happened. I was in Argentina with a group of loose friends. We were doing something wrong, maybe smuggling something. There were four of us and somebody was onto us. It got vaguely dangerous. I wanted to wake up to get out of Argentina, and eventually I did. It was five o'clock. What to do? My hip hurt (I had run a mile that night on the treadmill) like something on fire. I got up, went to the bathroom, came back and put on the music again. Sleeping to fiddles, mandolins, accordions knowing it was not sleep but better than thinking about other things trying to fall back to sleep in the early morning darkness.
The weekend bliss is gone.
A smiling, half naked woman in a black mask is an ominous thing, I think.
Foggy conditions with low visibility. Not quite cold. Rappers recruit radicals. I am a confirmed infidel. I don't like rap music enough, I guess. There is no chance it will sway me. No, I am for the mandolins and fiddles and strange harmonies of broken hearted boys and girls who have accepted life as a sad, sweet journey succored by music and tortured by love.
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