Endings.

Beginnings.

Been on my mind, though I suppose the truth is in all the living in the between.

Which is where I find myself to be. Some between. A curse of linear perspective. My confinement to a single dimension of time. One which seems unbreakable beside the unreliable reveries.

But anyway.

I’ve prepped as much as I can and will do a bit more upon the impending (though temporary) completion here. I categorized my catalog of original compositions and ordered them in some semblance of how I’d like the tunes to go down, upon tomorrow’s evening. A foolish and at least partially wasted effort, for my soothsaying ability is null, even as close of a hop as the next time the sun sets, on this part of the rock. However, I believe I already rambled about setlists. As I’ve rambled upon many other preparatory efforts- for if not fruitless, they so often bear some spawn other than my ideal attempting.

But the list was compiled, and slightly tested. And after a bit more of slight review, I’ll fight to find sleep to be rested enough to greet the day that lies in the way of my going. Which is often another hard fought endeavor.

And with this new day, as with the last, I will think of the times which have concluded behind me. And the ones which likes will never occur again. Interactions of a unique nature, or at least of finite repetitiveness. No, ma’am, nothing last forever. Some say, not even eternity.

Yet, it is still I residing in this mind. The very same that has buried and drowned out things of the past, in head and heart. Body and soul. Etc. The very same skull meat that cannot tell what next may smash some paradigm, assuming I have some left for smashing. I doubt this evening holds my final perspective, even knowing that in some inexplicable way, the perspective has always been the same. The original set of green-blue eyes that peered from a younger sentience, upon other beasts and deeds than what it currently seems to see. The very same pair that will someday see something entirely and completely different, in all sorts of ways. Any day, or even any moment.

I hope to succeed in performance upon the next night’s pre-arraigned deed. To do my best. To put on a show. Whilst simultaneously never feeding into the self-prescribed demise. To capture the thrill of the moment- as many as might be found. To harness the amped up nervous system to sustain the intangibility of soul. To furnace the drive I find inside, somehow, even in the damp decanter when little seems to splash from side, to side.

To know the feeling of a good show, and the hope that the last time was not the last time. To express the past pent-up prose and melody, all alive and twitching again with heightened electricity.

And to know that I will be standing by myself. No other place or person to lay blame for underscoring. And a potentially more limited well with which to draw that fountain of exhumed emotion. The spring of outward implosion, which flows in and out of the centered self, despite the might askew. And for all the thought of audience, and the need to consume their energy- I know for whom this is all done.

And that person is playing a show. Tomorrow. Solo. 8pm. If you made it here, you should be capable of figuring out the rest of the details, I’d imagine. Perhaps I’ll see you. Or maybe not.

But I’ll be there. Doing the best I can with what I’ve got. Which may not be much. Or it may very well be a lot.

We shall see.