The strings on the mahogany violin, bowed by the man who has been wearing the tuxedo for concerts since his child-self's infatuation with the power of music.

Then the most ivory pure timbres to hush the most contentiously mind-blanking uproar set in. Bathed in the colors of oceans bearing traces of sand from the shores of the parent civilizations, a true voice emanating from a single most unassuming emissary from the vineyards of pathos. A figure the likes of the dancing maiden with flower tiara upon twirling curls, she yet stands still before - no, at the very graces of! - the audience that has found her, to listen to the soft words she has contemplated for a time beyond her own age. Yes, she stands like a child not alone, yet close as the earth to heaven as alone... alone but for the soul-searing strain that she gives to you at once from her eyes and kind lips and her singular radiance! She must be alone, but, BUT! - save the divine glide of fingers from an angelic body that she is outstretching to you. Save for the most affecting speech a soul as I could know, she stands apart. But, for all the wonder her music speaks, we are together. Afternoon glow to the soul, in the darkest reach of night.

All Before Mid-Day

What vibrance, to wake up at 8:30, or even earlier. That specific time this morning I awoke from a dream where I had been chased out of a flooded salt water bay by creatures from the deep only to realize that I was in a children's movie. That gave me a bit of gusto for the morning.

I am tired of inaction, tired of dreaming away each day as the same droll fantasy. So I awoke from the locked excitement of dream, and burned it to fuel an awakening passion for living.

Blueberries and milk for breakfast, in part for no cereal. Cereal breakfasts - Honey Bunches of Oats - make me feel I have successfully completed the porridge-portion of sluggish pre-mid-morning, and can track my way fully around the day. Blueberries & milk; no fiber, no wheat, no crunch awake. Stiff-jawed to think of this now, I decide like I did without thought earlier that this isn't a setback. Enjoy the little sweet and sour puckers!

In action, the difference between less or more wholesome breakfasts is easily forgotten. Action is such a multi-dimensional art - I still must remember to eat well, remember obligations to my human potting, to cultivate the flower. First one must find that will to live. Ultimately I must accomplish both living and living well. There are head-play plans, dress rehearsals, and they are integral to enacting my brilliant play-days.

Multi-tasking: what drummer wouldn't learn the kick, snare and cymbal? The day is a polyrhythmic jazz, the morning the first melodious hook. I must throw my shoulders forward, must nod my head, must walk on my stage while staring at the audience and the concert sky to know my center-stage. I must keep the animals in my head as they mix, even when I myself remain physically still. Not static, but concentrated on all levels.