Right down to deadline, and here we are. What a day, huh? So, let’s get down to it.

Dear diary, I got so much that I’m going to write in you.

It is a funny thing. How a day can start one way and weave its way toward something completely different. And the hilarity continues when one ponders what a reoccurring day- holidays, anniversaries and such- can mean as they pass from year, to year, and so on.

Today was a day like that. One of the funny ones. And a holiday. And, an anniversary, to not be a liar. Yesterday too, being a funny one. Or me being funny about it. Honestly, might have been the whole week. It was one of those bouts of time that both seems cosmic in scale and so quick and concise at the same time. A million years. A moment. All in the same. Ever occurring, ever fleeting. Ambers of moments smashed against the ground to produce the most aesthetic kinds of dust.

So, if you can keep a secret, I’ll tell you. I felt less of myself these last two mornings than I have in near living memory. Not that I haven’t been down, but I tend to be the sort of bloke who, when he is down, fills himself with an energy of righteous indignation, or an akin spirit.

That was not, believe it or not, how the last two days went.

Doubt is a word that floats easily to my mind. Anxiousness is another, easily understandable tone. And all the while, why is the most massive question whose shadow seemed so inescapable.

Because, dear reader, you may not know this, but in fact, even your humble narrator is but a mortal man. Flesh and blood, and soul. As impacted by forces outside, as are the trees bending and breaking in an unruly atmosphere.

Well, for now, at least. Being mortal, and such. No promises for the future. I learned my lesson with soothsaying ages ago, though I do like to dabble in some re-learning now and again. You know, to make you feel alive. Make you feel young again. Though, I suppose I would have to stop feeling young in order to feel young again. A discussion for another time.

But an aim to this ramble? Can we get there?

This voice is the one I’ve got left. I used up the other one singing in a crowded bar without a microphone. They loved it. I knew they would. I am the best at what I do. And what I do is super rad.

Which is an astonishingly profound sentence coming from the very same fellow who not hours ago, could barely gather the gusto to pack his car. It’s been a week, to say the least.

But not because of some cataclysmic occurrences. At least not in a way leaning towards negative. Those sorts of moments, my strength gets gathered quick. Give me disaster, and I will rise to the occasion. Give me the mellow feeling left after artistic and friendship-istic encounters that touch upon the parts of soul that are generally reserved for unconscious dreaming- you know that place where all your best defense mechanisms are totally disabled and you must reside among the things you spend so much energy and effort in confining or deflecting, or the like?

Those places? I’m a fucking mess. I never know what to do with my hands.

 But it is important. Maybe not to dwell, but at the very least to visit those more destitute planes of existence. It’s a key to understanding. Of both others, in the empathetically manner. But also the self, in the ways that only the unguarded you knows. You know the place. That’s what I got the typewriter for. I told a friend, yesterday, who gave me the greatest of hugs, in addition to writing five tunes with this human, I tells him, I says- that the things that I write on that old clunker from 1968, can only be read after I’m dead. I certainly won’t stand around to be witness to that.

Maybe I’ll set it up like old Sammy Clemens. Everything out of that typewriter, you have to wait a century to read. Just to make sure everyone who might be directly impacted is also long dead by release. I’ve got that very book sitting on the self in a room over. Haven’t read it yet.

Isn’t that a funny thing?

Anyway, Happy St. Patrick’s day.