I say this to explain why I am so sleepy now ("No, the bourbon has nothing to do with it!") as I staid up way past my bedtime to complete a mix for my old friend Terry. Right now, I am making a mix of my favorite Richard Thompson cuts. But wait! I have 769 RT songs which will take me 2.5 days to listen through. Right now I am going through the 16 versions of 1952 Vincent Black Lightning (and the official release from Rumor and Sigh is not among them). A May 1993 version from Bloomington, Indiana with Danny Thompson is current front runner. The song was new then.
At any rate, I am a bit other focussed, though I should not be. I did manage to tear away from the computer to make Garden Vegetable Soup and Golden Potato-Cauliflower Soup as well as carmelizing onions and some brown rice, too. (We are working through all the vegetables we didn't use at Thanksgiving.) Tomorrow, I will be roasting brussels sprouts (balsamic, olive oil, garlic) and possibly doing something with some kale. But then I am headed down to Brooklyn again after dinner for three nights.
This by way of saying I am not thinking much. Nor am I doing much. Although it was a balmy 64 degrees today, I did not so much as open the front door. I haven't been out of the house since Sunday. I guess that happens when you hang out in the cold climes.
Maybe this return to music mixing is a good thing and perhaps I will return to reading and posting poetry again.
I have been meaning to share this little email from Iris for a couple of weeks:
Nice blog, amazing photos, as usual. Good to have talked to you yesterday on my sloooow way to BAM. The performance (Donka: A Love Letter to Chekhov) was…amazing…brilliant…extraordinary in every way. A love letter to Chekhov conceived with sharp sensitivity and profound intelligence. What I learned from it, which I realized I had already learned from Chekhov: We are, from birth to death, inmates in one asylum or another. But tenderness is always afloat. (November 15, 2012).