Farm Camp

It's odd with just me and the cats here at home. There is a void. Alas, my love will come home Saturday, and after a long day of leading garden tours myself the reuniting and the day off to follow will be more than welcome. It will only have been two weeks apart, but work has been exhausting for both of us and life is always better with her in it. We can't wait to see each other, and we make that plenty apparent. Yet, this is a funny scene for the here and now. I've come to realize I say some dumb stuff when I talk to myself. I turned the apartment into a collage factory for a few days and was reminded I ought to get a studio space of some kind to make my messes in. I have sung in the shower plenty, and plenty loud, and there has certainly been no improvement. The cats have realized I have the power to feed and sustain and they circle my ankles like barracudas. They miss their mom too. I open the fridge and my hand goes past the cat food to another Foster's oil can. Foster's Bitter reminds me of living with Bob and Annie on the ranch in California in 2000. Matt the Aussie would come over and do tricks on his motorcycle. We'd follow him on four-wheelers through giant redwood forests to his bosses home. Driving a four-wheeler after shots of "original" Australian rum takes some concentration, let me tell you. I have done a lot of thinking. I have thought about doing a lot of writing, but this might be all I have to show for it. Music has been my savior as it has before. Music has made me miss my loved one and tear up. Morning tunes have gotten me back on track again. Tonight I'm revisiting classic metal bands from around the world. Motorhead and Turbonegro are headlining. Hands raised, fists clenched, pinkie and forefinger pointing to the sky. Don't say motherfucker, motherfucker.

On the Stereo: Motorhead, Ace of Spades