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.