Water flowing Underground

Our boy contemplates the tiles. Who knows what he's really thinking about - but the grid, however normal (I almost wrote "natural") it seems to us, is not likely to have confronted the curious eyes of many of his puppy ancestors. I imagine him searching his files of genetic wisdom for what to do when you see a grid... and coming up empty.

I can relate. I think we all can. I've thought a lot about eating disorders in recent years - and I imagined trying to explain to my grandmother, who lived through the Depression: "Well, Grandmother, sometimes some people just can't feel good about eating, even if... or especially if... they have plenty of food." I don't think her grandmother (or her grandmother) would have understood, either.

It doesn't make much sense on its face that hungry people would feel bad about eating - certainly sounds like a genetic absurdity. But do we really expect our responses to make sense? We're a bunch of puppies staring at grid after grid. Every day we encounter (invent!) stimuli and stresses we have absolutely not evolved to process or respond to. Why shouldn't we act a little... unnatural?

I'll probably spend tomorrow entertaining the puppy and, if I'm lucky, I'll spend some time singing and playing into my machines so that I can post a new tune for your listening pleasure. (Speaking of absurdities: a working musician who sings into a computer and, often, doesn't leave the house. As terrifying as the live shows are, they at least feel real.)

Thanks as always for coming by, and apologies for the missed day. It's been busy around here. Don't forget the Project - I would love to hear your wacky suggestion of a place or situation in which to write a song.

Here's a poem from my favorite guy.



A Study of Reading Habits


When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don’t read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who’s yellow and keeps the store,
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.


Philip Larkin