Horton Hears The Who

Gord e-mailed me today telling me that the Hip will be in Indy at the beginning of March…opening for the Who. Humbly, he asked if I’d like to be on the guest list. These guys are always first class, treating me as the VIP, and I cannot say enough great things about their friendship, their nurturing, their intellect.

I’d rather sit in a corner and drool on myself than watch television (although, I must say, we’ve become rather fond of occasional Everybody Loves Raymond repeats), and I’m constantly drawn to challenging brains. Feed me, make me work for it, make my heart flutter and ponder, alight with knowledge.

Even Matt, who reads (mostly contracts and business briefs, but reads he does) all day, comes home and browses my bookshelves for a lofty gem. I push Chabon; Steinbeck; Foer; Eugenides; Bellow. I too love nurturing, feeding the soul. Life is too short for sitcoms.

I’ve lately been wandering along the musical paths of My Morning Jacket (my brother’s friend, Carl, is a native-Indy boy and lead guitarist) and Ray Lamontagne, my head and heart tangled in analogy and foreboding of joy and despair.

Thank God I’m not a business person!

I visited my ninety-one-year-old grandmother recently, who had a pile of books sitting by her side. “I’ll read these this week—the library delivers as many as I can consume.”

Behold the power of genes.

I feel creative late at night when I’m just about to fall asleep. I nudge Matt and say, “They’re back – the thoughts are coming rapidly.” He says, “Get up! Write! Write them all down!”

I usually smile and fall asleep.

I’ve kept a journal since the 7th grade, and I’ve kept a notepad next to my bed for many moons. The coiling weave of thoughts - it hovers. I plait the sentences and the grammar falls into place.

And can you tell that I’m currently drinking Pinot Noir? It doesn’t hurt, either.