Raining with a vengeance outside before I left the house and again on the way home. Luckily, I got a ride from friends, it's late to walk, late to wait for the bus there. Got seven minutes to write something. In the cocoon of someone else's safety, doing their art because they have to; we all have to. There was a joy in their playing, in the sharing it with each other and with the people in the room, mostly friends. Musicians who have been playing collectively (adding the years up) over 100 years, each of them playing for 20 -25 years. Outside, sometimes a passing bus, a shooting star of light; then darkness: the only light that mattered was in the room.
I'm blank today. I don't know this is how I want to say what I witnessed. I don't know how to say it now. It's starting over again somehow, but not really. And doing the thing that's in your soul. It's only too late to begin, or begin again, if you never do.
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