Mere Catharsis

Sunday was spent in the morning at the Downtown Fellowship, forgiving Don, the trumpet player for playing on my spot Saturday night.


I've spent time on these cartoons which only a few will "get."



I woke up with $7.07, the trumpet player probably woke up with a lot more, thanks to the wisdom of choosing the spot, which I found months ago by applying the same wisdom.

Then over to Jeff and Jennie's church where there was a chili cookoff happening in the gym. I consumed chili (mostly Jennie's because I know she doesn't use hydrogenated oils)and then I got to shoot the basketball around and throw the football. That was the most excersise that I've gotten in a while.

Today has been spent, so far; writing a paper for a guy who majors in electronics and computers, but not English; no, not English very much at all...

I still need to brush out my hair with conditioner, take the paper in its present stage of completion to show to the guy in hopes that he will advance me some of the "bucks," which he promised me. I need to finish it by Thursday night.

Then, to brush up a couple songs for The Garage open mic night, tonight. It would be nice to brush up on them at a spot where someone might throw me a couple dollars, so that I can go to The Garage with more than the $2.54 which is on me now...

Expelled

Very busy with the Senior Bowl happening in town. Lots of talent scouts and agents walking around. People tight with their money as they are probably spending the whole week here and conserving funds for one last gala, perhaps tonight.
The trumpet player, Don, set up on my favorite spot last night.
I only made about 10 bucks, due to the aforementioned tightness, at my acoustically superior spot. Don probably made more, especially after midnight, when my "early" spot slows down.
He banters with the folk walking past, and only blows a note or two on his horn every once and a while; most of his time is spent in chatting the people up, which in turn leads to them throwing him a few bucks.
I don't know if I need to arrive early and claim the spot tonight. I'm sure that the guy who sets up a hot dog stand at the same spot probably mentioned that I play there regularly (after midnight.)
I wonder if he told the horn guy that I do pretty well there, and if that will mean that the horn guy will arrive early and we will have to compete for the spot.
I don't know, but, above is a cartoon which will make sense only to the readers of the underground newspaper which I published in High School, and for which I was expelled...

The Group "The Vespers"

Up With The Sun
I went to Serda's last night and saw some group named "The Vespers," playing at the open mic event.
There were 5 of them, and they are travelling from somewhere, to somewhere else. I think they mentioned "Nashville."
I didn't get to do my newest reclaimed song, as, Vesper played a pretty long set, and then were followed by some of the regulars, to include Jimmy Lee, who did an electronica type thing, using repeated loops of himself singing, and then singing over the top of the loops of himself, until there was a huge choir of Jimmy Lee's.
My song would have been a change of pace, at least, however, it was not to be.

The Vespers

As the hour got late and it became apparent that I would have had to have been "sqeezed" on at the end, I opted to work another week on the song, somthing that I began this morning.
Tonight there is an open mic at Thai Kitchen, a spot frequented by Elizabeth Elliot, the poet, among other notables.
The Vesper's Facebook, where I found the photo to the right, claims that the two girls are siblings, and the two guys are siblings.
It said that they are touring the U.S. and will soon be back in Nashville.
They played very simple accompaniment, and relied upon vocal harmony and sounding as if the songs held deep meaning to them...

Old Things Have Passed Away

They Show Up Every Equinox

A New Creature
This morning, I woke and looked at the position of the sun, and guessed that it was a little after 10.
My clock "told me" that it was a little after 9. We are almost half-way to the Spring Equinox, a bigger concern to those who live in the wild, than to others, perhaps.
A feeling not unlike "depression" was hovering about me, like a fog, as I recollected myself and took inventory of my life.
I had almost a full pack of cigarettes, which was good; having spent 4 bucks on them was bad, though.
I wasn't that hung over, having only drank one shot of brandy, and then 2 Steel Reserves. That was good. Having spent the entire $6.35 on the above, was bad, though.
The night ended at The Garage, where I entered and sat down and was invited to play within 15 minutes. There was a sparse crowd, something that I thought might have had something to do with my uninspired session at Serda's, the previous Wednesday. The same feeling of having nothing that I was excited about playing invaded me, after "the guy" asked "Do you want to play something?" I decided to force myself to do the best that I could.
He let me play his electric guitar, which opened up sonic possibilities while at the same time felt a bit unfamiliar in my hands, because it has been 10 years since I played an electric all night, almost every night.
I got some possitive crowd reaction to my half-assed improvisations. I sang as much as I could remember of some of my songs and improvised a few verses on the new song, "I Fell In Love On Facebook."

I think the crowd is "blues-ed out," a bit by the other performers, who play nothing but that.
My chords were probably like a breath of fresh air, because they are not the flatted 7th chords which had been ringing constantly for the couple hours before I got up there. I DID do a blues, but it was the Sesame Street song. It was cool to be able to step on "the guy's" distortion pedal and get out some frustrations with an extended solo on it.
After finishing, I sat and watched a women's tennis match on one of the TV's. Nobody came over to offer me a beer. The prettier woman won the match.
Before that, I had been at the acoustically superior spot, where I had made $6.35.

Perspective Is Strange
Five of that came from one of the Pentacostal girls who come to Bienville Park on Monday evenings, with last night being no exception. I was sipping my second Steel Reserve and struggling to entertain myself, so that, in entertaining myself, I might entertain others.
My music sounded to me like an old 78 RPM scratched-up record on a Victrola, seen in black and white, and skipping...
I felt like a mechanical puppet, being animated by a motor, being rocked and gyrated, while a stale song played, sounding like it was coming through a megaphone, and with scary lyrics, like "Meet me at the palley, and we will dance the night away..." persuant to which I could percieve the people's unvoiced "No Thanks," as they speed their gates and walk past. Yeah, that's kind of how I felt. (Like the puppet that used to be in front of the funhouse, in a glass case, at Whalom Park, in Lunenburg, Ma., Dave V., if you read this...)
The Pentacostal girl gave me some water, and told me that I sounded "great." I was almost sceptical and wondered how I wasn't like an amusement park mechanical clown being animated by a motor, to her...
Perspective is strange.

Soup And Crackers

Hard To Wash, Though

Another Cold One
I looked at about 50 works of pottery, and the winner is to the left, I would just hate to have to wash it.
Last night, the temperature drove me away from my spot, by 9 pm. It was probably around freezing.
I had been joined briefly by a guy who plays trumpet but; he seemed to become discouraged, either by the fact that I was tuning up to his horn and taking my time doing it, or by the fact that nobody was walking by at the time.
The reason I was tuning so meticulously was that there was nobody walking by.
I went to my sleeping spot and ate two cans of soup and a sleeve of Saltine crackers, and went to sleep.
I woke up at one point and gulped down some V8 juice. I had only had a half pint of vodka the previous evening, and I had shared some of that with Alan From Las Vegas. The beer that the guy who plays trumpet gave me was still in my bag this morning, untouched.
Alan appeared to be offended when I walked off, after telling him that I had things to do. I pretty much had anticipated him being like that, which made me feel pressured to hang out, and so I left, because I don't like feeling pressured.
And that is all that matters on this Saturday, January 22nd, at 2pm.
Since I haven't really given you much, I will make up for it by including one more picture.

Out Of The Dark

The Next "Cat Woman"

Yes, Anne Hathaway will play the next Cat Woman in a film to be released in July of 2012, to coincide with the reversing of the Earth's polarity (when it will flip over, making the North Pole the new South Pole...)
Eking Out A Living
Yesterday afternoon, I sat down at my spot and began to work on a song about a guy who meets a girl on Facebook who ends up attacking him with a meat cleaver. I may change the implement to a machete in the final draft, and have her invite him over for spaghetti.
I made just about 6 bucks in a couple of hours, but composed about half of the song, and had a visit from a charming young lady.
I was in the process of working out the verse where the girl in the song's "interests" include watching snuff films, old Vietnam War footage, Mixed Martial Arts, and needlepoint, when a figure began to emerge from the shadows, silhouetted by the light of the Subway.
"Hi, Daniel," I heard, from whom I started to think was Becca, the Christian Youth Counsellor, but, as the apparition drew nearer, I recognized it to be none other than Taylor, eldest daughter of Jeff The Potter.
We spoke briefly, and she gave me the name of a morbid band, to add to my song; then, she was off to meet somebody named Dave.
Kensy


This Could Be Kenzy (facebook)

I took a break to eat at 15 Place, where I was joined at my table by a girl named Kenzy, who was one of the servers, and who kept insisting upon knowing my age. She said that she looks for me every Thursday, but that I am not always there. I evaded her question and kept her in the dark on the matter..
I felt a little bit guilty about keeping a 16 year old girl in the dark, though.
Enthusiasm Cooled
It's cold outside, and I'm not yet motivated to go out and play.
I may read some, and then meditate in the graveyard... 

This Makes Me Want To Run To Starbucks Imediately

Today's Pottery Advice

NEVER open a kiln while it is firing!

You Don't Have To Understand Everything To Use It

Parcel From London Arrives
The Mayflower Could Have Gotten It Here Sooner
In about the same length of time that it used to take the old Clipper Ships to sail the Atlantic, the parcel, sent by The Lidgleys for Christmas; made it to Mobile.
I was just stepping outside of Serda's for a smoke when Jeff The Potter drove up and proclaimed its arrival.
Once inside, I opened it, and read the card, sitting on a couch, next to a girl wearing fish-net stockings. I was happy to see some concentrated Dawn Dishwashing Liquid, just in time for my next forray into the laundromat, and happy to know that someone had read my blog entry which extolled the effectiveness of that liquid against tough stains, like trolley grease.
There were other items enclosed, some of which I will not mention here, for fear that the bums in the park might read this blog, and beg me for them.
Songwriter's Block


I would have been content to sit and listen to poetry and the vocal stylings of the girl in the fish-net stockings, but, Jimmy Lee asked me to perform. I agreed to, even though I had no ideas in my head. My head was like a barren desert, full of cacti, none of them peyote.
Before going to Serda's, I had played on the street and made 2 dollars and 87 cents, which I was grateful for, having woke up with 18 cents that morning.
I then met Alan From Las Vegas in the park, and we both partook of 2 Earthquake High Gravity Lagers.

Why I Didn't Sing About Her

This could have loosened me up and inspired an entertaining performance, but it didn't. I sat down at the mic, and couldn't decide what to sing about. I had a notion of what NOT to sing about (the girl in the fish-net stockings) but no clue further. Jeff The Potter had told me before I went up, that he would be praying for me.
Girl in the fish-net stockings, out of the fish-net stockings; from her band's Facebook page (left)
I have often, in the past, tried to clear my head and then improvise upon anything that popped into it. I used to think that it was the Holy Spirit that supplied the words and the tune. Maybe it was, and maybe the Spirit avoids Earthquake High Gravity Lager. I used to do it sober.
All I could manage was a song called "I Wish I Could Think Of Something Entertaining," which annoyed me enough to make me want to stop. I didn't like the chords that I picked. My bottom string broke, mercifully, and I left, to go and try to figure out what I could learn from the experience.
Thankfully, most of the people had left by that point, and the girl in the fish-net stockings was enguaged in conversation with some of the few stragglers, thus removing all of their attentions from my half-hearted "don't want to be here" style songs. 
I concluded that there is something in Earthquake High Gravity Lager which makes one stupid.
Jeff gave me a ride back to my spot, but not before giving me some of the things that I had been lamenting running out of, like conditioner. Those things from Jeff and Jennie, combined with the stuff from London, pretty much restored my ability to keep from looking and smelling homeless.
There was also a jug of V8 juice, which I gulped off of at some point in the wee hours of the morning, after waking up with Post Earthquake Dehydration.
I am choosing to view the experience at Serda's in a positive light, and have tentatively titled my song for next week "I Aint Gonna Drink Those Earthquakes No More."
Seven Lies Of Success, No. 4
Since "time" is such a precious commodity, instead of taking a lot of it, in order to figure something out, find someone who already has, and just ask them about what you need to know.
I am going to go next door to the "Geneology" library and ask the lady if she knows anything helpful to an adopted child, curious about his/her biological parents. Maybe she can do, in a few clicks, what I've often thought about getting around to, and that is, to locate my biological parents (so I can bum money and cigarettes off them -just kidding)
Fun Pottery Fact (new feature, which I will include every now and then)

At 1,063 degrees farenheit, the quartz crystals in the clay change from alpha to beta forms, and the ware undergoes a slight increase in volume (from Surfaces, Glazes & Firing, by Angelica Pozo)

Warning: Written In Anger

• Everything happens for a reason, and supports us.
• There is no such thing as failure, only "outcomes."
• Whatever happens, take responsibility for it.

Rain
Last evening, it began to rain, early in the evening.
I had just spoken to Alan, who is back staying at the railroad track spot, where he is unprotected from the rain and from a mystery thief.
The weather forced me under my trolley before 8pm., where I fell asleep quickly, having had a cold for the past couple of days, and needing rest.
I woke up when the puddle of water, which normally only seeps under the trolley after a heavy rainfall, had done exactly that. My right elbow had gotten wet. I pulled myself a few feet further back, out of the puddle. This had the drawback of making me more visible in the morning, when daylight came. I used this as a catalyst to get up and go to the Presbyterian, for a cup of coffee. I gave my egg away.
The night had been passed fitfully; in a struggle to gain a positive attitude.
I was down to 13 cents, I had a cold, all my clothes are dirty, my hair is knotted impossibly and I am out of conditioner. My guitar strings are at the point of breaking, and the straps on my backpack are both snapped. My other backpack was stolen by the mystery thief, who might be Thomas.

Soon my spot will be uninhabitable, when the trolleys are put into service  for the Mardi Gras. etc.

I lay there making an inventory of everyone that I hated, and dredged up some that I had forgotten about; those who had wronged me years ago.
I Struggle With Anger

To say that I was struggling with anger would be accurate.

I think the trolley has an evil spirit. I often lay there with an imaginary film playing in my head, taking me back to all the times that I've been lied to, cheated and stolen from. My fists clench and I want to punch something. It's hard to go back to sleep with all the adrenaline flowing..

I am probably withdrawing from alcohol and tobacco, which I have not been able to afford the past 4 days.
It is also hard to have self esteem, when the world rewards you with little for what you do.
It was a mistake to go to the Presbyterian where everyone who spoke to me did so as a prelude to asking me for something; smiling like a cat and saying "Hey, guitar man, how's it going? Hey, you got a dollar?"
This was my time to ask somebody for something, even if it was a couple puffs off some one's cigarette.
It doesn't work that way. Myself, as a "white man" with all the advantages of having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth with my ticket to prosperity already punched, am not supposed to ask my "brothers" for anything at all.
It's just "not right."
*After all, the world is my oyster and I get a check every month from the N.A.A.W.P., don't I?
My friend in Massachusetts mentioned sending some money Friday, when I was using up the remainder of my "minutes" talking to him. I walked the mile to the Western Union place yesterday to learn that "It's not on here."
Then, I walked back into town, past all the guys who hang out around the Circle K, and who had seen me come out of the Western Union place.
They didn't seem to believe that I hadn't gotten anything there, and was broke.
Stingy, greedy and deserving of a beating, sure; but not broke. After all, I've got "that guitar" on my back.
I arrived in town just as the rain was starting to fall.

While I'm cataloguing my misfortunes: The parcel, which The Lidgleys sent (on December 11th) for Christmas, has apparently disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic...
I can't rely upon Alan From Las Vegas, either.
He had a handful of change this morning, which he got from holding his sign up on Government Street the day before. He held the money out in plain sight, and it seemed to me that his communication was "Now, if you had spent all your money on booze for us to share when you had it, then maybe I would be offering you a couple dollars now; See how it works?"
That kind of thing is right out of the co-dependent/manipulative behaviour Handbook For Addicts.
I have been fighting an impulse to look for reasons to hate everyone that I have seen today, with the exception of a very few. Frankly, most of them have been wearing expressions of hatred their own selves. 
There is a guy right now in the library, who is sitting in a chair and bobbing his head, as if he is listening to music that nobody else can hear. I don't even know him. I look over at him and it is hard not to hate him, even though he does the same thing almost every day and it never bothered me before...
I am off to work on my state of mind by sitting in the graveyard. I might go play on the street for some money, so I will have more than 13 cents.
Tonight is Songwriter's Open Mic at Serda's. I don't have a song. My "job" is music, yet I don't have a song ready. Something wrong there.
I brushed my hair out earlier, in the graveyard, removing in the process 3 brush-fulls of strands which snapped off. I guess I am saving the money for a haircut in the future.
If I run out of all my personal care stuff and end up looking ragged; I will consider hopping the train to New Orleans, where I should probably have gone a long time ago, where I can prosper in "the city of sin."
So, to recap: "Everything happens for a reason, and supports us" If you choose to believe that.
I could see the rain as certainly having happened for a reason, my catching a cold was probably from smoking a half cigarette, which someone left in an ashtray.
The way it can support me is if I make an effort to never be in the same situation again.
I'll be happier after making some of my own money tonight, and taking full responsibility for my situation.

The Power Of State Of Mind

Everything that we want in life has to do with a particular state of mind.
We don't want to win the lottery because of the money. Money is just pieces of green paper with pictures of dead presidents on them.
We want the feeling that the money will give us, love, confidence, freedom...the state of mind.
If we can put ourselves in that particular state of mind without having to have the money, then, more power to us.
Right, girls? (left, girls)

Belief

Daniel has gone fishing and is unavailable at this time...

Leaving the library, yesterday, I walked through the cold to the Save-A-Lot, where I bought a half gallon of V8 Splash, and a Monster energy drink for to wake up in the morning with.
I then bent my steps towards The Thai Island, where I knew there to be a songwriter's open mic night, where the most interesting original song of the night earns the performer of it a 25 dollar gift certificate.
Walking by, I saw the backs of Sky Johansen and her boyfriend in the front window. Sky was playing a cello, her boyfriend, a guitar. I listened for a minute, and then went on, thinking of making a few bucks on the street, and absent of any ideas for songs, and realising that I really don't have very many complete songs, yet a lot of them "in the oven."
My next song is going to be about all the people who have invited me to their churches, promising everything from video games and coffee, to showers and clean clothing, and some, just the Word of God; no frills.
"So Many Churches And Only One Sunday," is the working title.
The second ingredient to The Ultimate Success Formula: Belief.
Without belief, we will not be passionate about achieving our desired outcomes.

"Wheather you believe that you can do something, or believe that you can't; you are right."

Tuesday's Gone

The "Squid" Omen, Again
I met a guy at Serda's last night, named Christopher Noerr, who drew the illustration to the left. I chose this one because of the giant squid, obviously, and because he told me it would be OK to post his stuff, as long as I credited him with it.
I think it is Jules Verne, but am not sure; I've never seen Jules in person or photo.
I was at Serda's after I decided not to play on the street. It was 36 degrees, according to the thermometer on Water Street. There were few souls treading the sidewalks.
I struck up a conversation with Chris, which started with a comment that I made about the "closed captioning" adorning the movie, which was silently playing on the large-screen in Serda's back room; the "bags of coffee beans" room.
I thought it comical that one of the captions read: "fife playing," as if the deaf person's enjoyment of the feature would be thus enhanced. "Why don't they put "birds chirping in the background; horse's hooves clopping on ground," I said.
The captions were sometimes scattered across the screen "To let you know that the sounds are coming from all around," said Chris.
"Stereo for the hearing impaired," I added.
We talked about the fact that we are both working on Children's Books. I outlined "It's The Hat That They Hate" for him, which met with his encouragement. He told me about a project of his, which I will not detail here, due to possible copy writing issues.
The first part of the day had me sleeping in until 11:30 am., going for an energy drink, and then spending a great part of the day at the library, where I delivered myself of yesterday's post, and then read more of the idiots guide to publishing book.

The hardest part of being published for me, I anticipate, will be following the "rules" of the editors and agents, and not sending a manuscript with a coffee stain on it, for example. Rules, rules, rules!!
And, now, I am going to cut this short. I have a busy schedule, with the children's book, church service tonight with Jeff and Jennie and family, and then, possibly playing at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic. The song will be called "I'm Giving Up On Music"
This morning, I slept until 11:10 am, because it was too cold to get out of my sleeping bag when I first awoke. So, I am behind "schedule.'
To compensate you for the brevity of this post, here is another giant squid, enjoy!

First, Have Passion

Jeff Beck, who is about 10 years older than me, and one of my favorite guitarists,
playing at a blues festival, along with Tal Wilkenfeld, aged 20, who I now have
a "schoolboy" crush on, and want to put a note in whose locker from a "secret admirer."
I wonder how many bass guitars she went through before finding one that "fit" just right...
I'm sure Jeff's found that she "nurtured" the music with her accompaniment.

Terry Postpones Bones
Yesterday was spent for a large part in the library, where I decided to wander the aisles and came face to face with a book called "The Complete Idiots Guide to Getting Published," of which I read the first five chapters. This inspired me to think about pouring more energy into finishing a children's book, which I have started.
I also read some of Tony Robbin's book, Unlimited Power, to wit, the section on passion.
It is passion, according to Tony, which made Arthur Ashe (editors note: for an obscure example) charge the net relentlessly until he eventually forced his opponents into errors, and passion which makes people rise early and stay up late. I decided to become more passionate about finishing my children's book.
I then saw Terry, sitting in one of the reading lounges. Terry is a 54 year old black man, and there was another black man in the chair to his left.
I greeted Terry, who told me that he had been looking for me earlier, about cooking neck bones. We both agreed that there was not really enough time left before the start of the Fiesta Bowl, to cook neck bones (and do them justice.)
While I spoke to Terry, I was aware of the other man's studying of my face and thought that he was analysing my deportment and probably trying to glean signs of bigotry in me. Many of the African-Americans downtown, I believe, have developed the opinion that I am a racist; probably because I don't give them cigarettes; something which they too readily attribute to their skin color. When I hang around with Terry, I often notice in the body language and expressions of many of the blacks that we encounter, a sense of mild surprise and relief, and it almost looks like their lips are saying "I thought he hate us." I have made "converts" of many of them, just by being seen alongside Terry, talking and laughing on the streets. The guy in the other chair had me under his microscope, I felt.
Terry and I went to the Save-A-Lot, where I got him some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, to snack upon during the game. He went towards the Salvation Army, and I went into town, hoping to make a little bit of money before the game started; at least enough for a second beer.Less Than Ten People Pass
I had been at the acoustically superior spot, playing (in the mode of E mixolodean, or blues) during the two hours leading up to the kickoff of the Fiesta Bowl, and saw less than ten people pass by. Four of them approached to pray over me, giving me crackers and water in the process, along with some literature, and an invitation to their church in Saraland, a place which is quite a walk from downtown, and which is named for Sara, I guess. They were in their early twenties, three guys and a girl.
They are Pentacostal(s) and told me that it was possible for me to live a "sin free" life, and that the beer (my second one) and cigarettes would then be a thing of the past, but not to think that they were judging me because of them. They used the scripture about the body being a temple. I was trying to remember the one about removing logs from your eye; but decided not to argue but to be grateful for their caring about me. 
I felt compelled to sip away and light up eventually, as they spoke to me for a while, and were probably making me a little nervous; me not knowing what they had up their sleeves. They put their hands on my shoulders and prayed simultaneously, concluding with "in the Name of Jesus," to which I said "Amen."
They encouraged me not to quit playing, but, after they walked off, I had very little desire to continue, and so, stopped and went to watch the game. It looked like there had been a mass abduction on Dauphin Street, anyways.
I Consider Giving Up Music
I'm considering the letting go of any musical aspirations which I might harbor, and to cultivate an attitude of indifference toward the craft. Last night, as I lay in the top secret, undisclosed spot, I could hear the blues guitarist at The Garage persisting with the 7 notes of the Blues, and it actually became tedious to listen to. I was at a loss to think of anything to contribute, if I were to carry my guitar over there and join the open mic event. I didn't feel like doing any of my songs; didn't think that I would enjoy doing them; didn't think that I could do them in a novel way, nor improvise anything, do to lack of any cause to further, and I wasn't envisioning the audience greatly appreciating them. I decided to just let it go, for now.
After the game, I had gone to the Shell and gotten a morning energy drink, and an evening "relaxation" drink, which contained Valerian root, kava kava and other herbs which, according to the warning label, make the operation of heavy machinery inadvisable after the consumption of which.
The relaxation drink made me feel a bit sedated, but not enough to put me to sleep until after the blues jam at The Garage had ended. I could hear it just loud enough so that I couldn't help trying to identify the songs that were being played. At times, I could identify every note by letter and octave, especially when the song was in the key of E (blues). ...now he's bending the third string at the fifth fret one half-step, to produce a C# note....I wish I could just drift off to sleep...
I had had only had two beers the entire evening.

"Let Me Know If You Change Your Mind"

This morning, I slept until about 11:30. I had been up watching the Auburn/Oregon game until the end. I wound up routing for the Oregon Ducks, as they seemed to be smaller and more reliant upon finesse, cleverness and trickery against the more "brutish" Auburn team. Being 144 pounds myself, I identified with the Ducks.
I went into the children's section of the library and looked for books similar to the one that I want to write. There was no shortage of them, which I take as a sign that they sell well. None of them which I saw bore the exact same title as the one that I am working on.
I then stumbled upon Tal Wilkenfeld and Jeff Beck, posted on some one's Facebook, just as I ponder quitting music...odd. Unfortunately I can't watch the video here at the library, as it is deemed "rated R" by the filtering software.

A Prayer For Guidance

I sometimes feel like I will die in a spot like this; just looking, and thinking.
This morning, I vacillated between feeling despondent, getting over it, and then feeling despondent, overwhelmed and lacking purpose; and then getting over it. These emotions have rarely been visited upon me since my becoming a street musician.
It is already 1 pm., and soon the temperature will plummet into the range where playing guitar on the street will not be a viable option. Going to The Garage for their open mic night would put me in a warm place, but I wouldn't feel entirely comfortable, (having only a dollar and seventeen cents,) when the waitress comes to ask me if I "want anything."
Neckbones With Terry
My friend Terry wants to cook some "neckbones" in some kind of fryer type thing, which he owns and plugs into a certain socket outside the U-Haul place. I still have "food money," and I may just buy some neckbones and let Terry cook them up for us. There is that feeling of despair, again.
I feel like I could and should have entered the "Kingdom Of Heaven," but am stuck here on earth, where Satan is jerking me around, and mocking me, because I didn't quite repent enough or have strong enough faith. It's like I am in a coma and angels are around me, shaking me and trying to reach me, saying "Wake up, Daniel; you can do it!" Yet, I remain unconscious, dreaming about stupid things that will never matter, ultimately. 
..neckbones; stupid??...
God only reveals Himself to certain people (that's somewhere in the bible,) and it is crossing my mind that my whole spiritual journey to this point may have been an illusion, born in my imagination. It's hard to be absolutely certain about anything, by my nature. I have total faith in "blind faith," I just wish I believed that more strongly.
It would be a shame to think that I wound up in Mobile totally at random and that there is no significance to things which seemed God-sent at the occasion of them.


I was warm and snug in my sleeping bag last night, with a fleece blanket wrapped around me, under the trolley with my radio on, as I listened to the re-capping of the games which were played, which I missed because I can't be in several places at once, and can't prioritise, nor manage time. I am standing at the foot of the signpost, as its shadow grows long. 
It is time for a period of fasting and prayer...after the neckbones, that is...
That's the only thing which has never failed me.
I Went To High School With Mike

ON A Different Note, the picture to the right was posted by a guy I went to high school with. He was a rather shy and reserved kid, not known by me, at the time, to be an artist nor musician. But, it's hard to know what a quiet, reserved kid from a small town has going on in his head, and I guess he was/is an artist, at least (see right)
I found this post this morning, and am putting it here because it is pretty similar to something that Jared, son of Jeff The Potter and Jennie, drew Sunday.
It is possible that Mike Feeney (as that is his name) was drawing this at the same time, 1,200 miles away; tapping into some collective, subconscious well of creative energy.
I now go to contemplate what to "tap into," myself. I'm reading 3 books, writing 3 books, working on 12 songs, and trying to "improve" myself in general, and little appears to be getting done. I am haunted by people who would tell me that, maybe I wasn't meant to do the thing that I am trying to do, and that accounts for my lack of progress.
Maybe I will just work harder, like the Donkey in "Animal Farm," by George Orwell.
I know that my life can change in 48 hours, thanks to U-Tube...
I could be just a few neckbones away from self-realization...

I Lose A Follower

Logging on this morning, I saw that my number of followers has decreased from 6 to 5. I guess I've dropped the ball and made one lame post too many, and lost hold of the interest of one now ex-follower.

It feels like having 16.6% of my heart ripped out.

I Can see from the Chart above, which I lifted off of my "stats" page, that I am still apparently being followed by the Lidgleys, which is evident by the green shading which colors the country of Great Britain, where they live in London. It is unlikely that some other English person is following the blog. Someone is using a Macintosh instead of a "Windows" operating system, and I think that could be the Lidgleys, also.
I have no idea who in Alaska reads this, or if Alaska is automatically shaded as part of the United States; if so, then why is Hawaii not?

Children coming to hear about Jesus from me

Fictitious Life?
I will try to generate more interest, perhaps by making up a fictitious life, in place of the one that I am living. Which reminds me; have I posted about the missionary work that I have been doing in Guatemala, on the slow weekdays. I think I have a photo somewhere.
These kids barely have electricity, and have to share one bible between all 20 of them; it's heartbreaking. I get as much fulfillment out of the work that I do in Central America, as I do playing music on the streets of Mobile.
Speaking of which, I am off once again to try to learn a Phil Collins song, after my aborted attempt yesterday.

Successful Blogging

In order to have a "successful" blog, one must post daily, or one will lose the interest of one's followers. One should keep one's posts brief. I suppose one should make his posts interesting, also. I can't really help you there...
Yesterday, I was up with my alarm clock at 7:05 am.
I went for breakfast at the Presbyterian, where I got to play the piano for about 10 minutes.
It was the day of the Go-Daddy dot com bowl, which was a football game between the Middle Tennessee State Blue Raiders, and the Miami (of Ohio) Red Hawks.
I was able to make some money playing at the acoustically superior spot, during the afternoon. It seems as if there are probably no street musicians in Miami or the middle of Tennessee, as the folks treated me as a novelty.
I spoke to a couple of girls who were wearing the Middle Tennessee colors, who answered my smart-assed question by informing me that, yes, Middle Tennessee State is literally at the geographic center of that state. They told me that their team were called "the Blue Raiders."
Later in the evening, as I rested against a wall after playing for a couple of hours, the same girls came by and handed me a couple dollars and told me that they had heard me playing, and reminded me that they had talked to me earlier.
That amounted to about the highlight of the evening.
This morning, I slept until almost 10 at the undisclosed, top secret spot.
It is Friday, and I want to make some money tonight, as I am down to under 20 bucks.

I still haven't gotten the parcel which The Lidgleys sent a couple weeks ago. It may have been delayed by the snowstorms, which grounded a lot of flights up north.
I am off now, to try to learn a Phil Collins song. I think every street musician should know a Phil Collins song, or two. I haven't had any requests for Phil's music, but I can feel them coming, on the air, perhaps tonight, even...oh, Lord.

Secret, Undisclosed Spot

I Move to Where Neither Alan Nor Thomas Can Find Me
Yesterday, Tuesday, was spent mostly in moving all my stuff from the railroad track spot, to a spot which I will not divulge, especially to Alan or Thomas.
I went to the laundromat and washed everything which was worth washing, but especially my sleeping bag, upon which Thomas, and I believe, Alan, slept.
The thing needed a good washing, anyway.
Leaving the laundromat, I went to the secret, undisclosed spot and stowed away most of the clean laundry. I forgot that I had taken my money out of my pocket and shoved it in one of my bags, amongst the clean clothes. I did this because the laundromat is in a neighborhood where "they'll kill you for three dollars," according to people who seem to have knowledge of this fact (and yet, are still alive.)
Arriving in town, I found that I had just enough money for a blue Mountain Dew, which I purchased at the Dauphin Store, before venturing forth onto the sidewalks of Dauphine Street, where I saw very few souls, as I sat down to play for my own amusement, and in celebration of my having successfully moved out of the railroad track spot, and to the undisclosed, secret location about three quarters of a mile away.
Sunday

A good part of Sunday was spent in church; the Fellowship Baptist one, where Jeff and Jennie's family go, and where the bible is pretty heavily leaned upon.
We listened as those who have been appropriately educated, dissected the verses of that all-time best-selling book. (The last time I checked it was, though some of Steven King's may be creeping up on it, at least in paperback. [I predict that, if that ever happens, the world will have seen some kind of sign manifested])
That particular church maintains that those who are not "registered" members of a church, (flock, congregation gathering) are committing a sin.
They append to the definition of this church "family," one of its functions, by which its members "take responsibility" for each other.
Whether or not this "responsibility" entails just the keeping of one another in prayer, or the knocking upon doors to ask: "Where were you, we hope everything is alright," if ever a member misses a service, I am not really clear on.
They are a congregation of very nice people, even as they are preached to that such a quality doesn't amount to a hill of beans towards their salvation, and that there will be a lot of "nice" people in hell. (It's right there in black and white; and red)
There is such a preponderance of families with children who attend the Fellowship, that one can't help seeing it as a church "for" families, just as The Cave (click on "The Cave" in the "for more information on" section to the left for more information on The Cave) is kind of a church "for" ex bikers and others who used to do really bad things, but have turned their lives around by asking God into their hearts, and now just smoke cigarettes, drink a little, and will take a few hits off a joint every now and then.
The men of the Fellowship Baptist are pretty uniform in outward appearance regarding attire and grooming, sporting short hair, button-up shirt and tie with jacket, and for the most part having a wife in a dress by their side and having children in tow.
The children are dressed in like fashion, with the absence of a tie for the boys, and the addition of ribbons or other frilly things to the girls.
The preaching is done by someone who speaks with authority. None of the congregation add to nor question the sermon. Questioning can be done after the service, by merely approaching the pastor, and asking away, though.
The preacher does the praying for the flock also, in a sort of "class action" manner, whereby he speaks to God for everyone present, which I find to be consistentent with most churches. 
They are in contrast, in the manner of delivery of sermon and prayer, with the Downtown Fellowship, where the preachers periodically stop to allow feedback from those in attendance, and individuals are given opportunity to voice their "personal" prayers.
This is lent more practicality there, given the fact that their gathering seems to average only about 30 folks, on any given Sunday. This is not including those of the Muslim faith, who are invariably there, who publicly denounce Christians and their church, calling their God a "white man's god," but who probably thank their own god for the warm room, and the chance to sleep in it for a solid hour each Sunday morning.
Saturday
Saturday was New Year's Day, and I woke up at Jeff and Jennie's house. We had been up the previous evening with company.