I spy with my little eye…. a breakfast nook. Yes, that’s it. I spy with my little eye… a seven-foot-tall solid iron anvil. Found that one too, eh? Hmmm… I’m going to have to make this harder.
Hello again, visitor(s). Yeah, just killing a little time on a holiday weekend. All the carolers have gone home, back to their cabins somewhere in the Adirondacks to stoke their hearth fires and peel their stocking-heel tangerines. Celebratory drinks all around! The place is as dead as a hammer head… and we’ve got a lot of those lying about the old abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. (Or, as some call it, the hammer mill of the imagination.) I’m looking out upon empty cobblestone streets in the old canal-side district of Little Falls, NY, watching the snowflakes drift lazily earthward, each one laden with icy cloud-stuff, little bits of frozen heaven dropped by the formidable gods of the great north. Sometimes it feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere. (I think I know why that is.) Always makes me think of Matt’s song “Ask For Leave”…
If you reversed your collar
and pulled a hood up over your head
and traveled north
You travel due north on any road
long enough
You will find an ice cave
Oh, isolation on top of the world
Maybe in twenty-five years
you can ask the lama for some leave
Hoo, man. We got to get the heat working! I’m starting to dream in sub-freezing Panavision (registered trademark). So anyway… what did you do this holiday? Assuming, of course, you observe any type of holiday, you likely consumed some rich fare, perhaps alcoholic beverages, maybe mingled with some close and not-so-close relations, imbibed more alcohol to help with the last item, then talked in circles with old uncle Farley until he was ready to retire. (Wheel him out, boys. That’s the stuff.)
Me? I worked my way down to the catacombs and played my antiquated Roland (registered trademark) piano until I started foaming at the mouth and falling over backwards. (That usually takes an hour or less.) Me need practice. Me no play so hot without plenty practice. (Me not play so hot ANYWAY… but with no practice, ME SUCK.) Why the primitive caveman jargon? Well, as you know, rock of pretty much every variety is, at its best, a minimalist art form. Very primitive music, played by very, very primitive people, many of whom scrape their knuckles over the strings, keys, skins, whatever, to make the requisite sounds.
Well, is that the time. Better get back to my Yuletide activities. What ho!
