“There’s a lot going on with flowers right now, but other things too. My heart. Moving along mysterious paths, part radar scanner, part pendulum, as if I were in the way. I guess I am. I bumble through my days. The studio is filled with song & sound, and fresh energy, as I had planned for it to be, while I float in and out, not really needed but for occasional advice or advisories, while thunder clouds swarm, dancing across the wide open plains of Lake Champlain. I travel, or stay home, depending on what or whom is calling for help the loudest. It’s not unusual for me to be alone, or crave being alone, but my life is built to bend towards people, and plants, and anything else outrageously blossoming, or, going awry. I don’t feel settled in any sense of the word. But the world is a trajectory, at best, aiming, or aimless, tilting or righting itself, according to each finely orchestrated attempt. I see the good, and can almost connect with it, but for a lingering, ominous, sense of darkness. I remember being asked, many times, if I could “write a happy song”. It seemed a sentence, or a purgatory, once, to be perceived as chronically sad. Now I don’t care so much, to define the territory I live in. Regardless, it’s filled with life, and burgeoning growth. Whoever thought they knew me, or had my number, I can only say: “good luck”. This is not a straight forward operation, this existence we inhabit, or pretend to own. I don’t even know why I do what I do, but the distinction I’ve created, sequestering amongst plants & music, might tell a poignant tale, deeply rooted in the concept of trust. I know I’m not alone. In my idle hours, I’m often to be found stacking wood, or dragging tree limbs, or emptying buckets full of weeds. In another reality, I would be singing; in another, I would be loving with every ounce of my being. I’ve tried to be everything, to a family, and tried, over & over, to be what someone desired. Again, this is not always in synchronized perfection, with what the universe is covertly coding, for the random few who still roam free. I’ve had many who invaded my space, and on my side, this license to usurp was freely given despite my best efforts to be strong, and singular. I often find I’m not measuring up to my own expectations. But if sheer flower power is indicative of anything, I have, I think, bolstered my presentation. I’ll still twist myself into knots, angry to think about a kiss I didn’t invite, or pissed off about absurd rumors started by my ex, that it appears his followers have accepted as true. I have no one to blame, but this bumbling being that I am. No wonder I feel relief, shopping in greenhouses, buying thousands of dollars worth of annuals, shrubs, trees. I’m going to make the world a more beautiful place, bar none. As for the world of my studio, let it be someone else writing the dark missives. She’s younger, but working on behalf of all the same contradictions. Art. We still make it, hand-make it, in audio labs, often in obscurity. Where it flourishes, until it is forced to choose, to be what it is not.”
