Or by feeling, rather. Or both. The writing spirit has come over me at this inconvenient hour, and so it's to the blog I go.
Of late, songwriting has been my chief employment, aside from real-life boring pay-check employment. Lyrics have had an easy birth, but when they arrive at musical puberty - rhythms and tunes - growing pains set in. It is a labor of love sometimes, mothering those little ink-born snippets, helping them find their individual voices with which to tell their stories. Enter the playing by ear; guitar, keyboard, and mandolin, you are my best mates. Couldn't do it without you.
Now for the "inklings" (yes, this is my new name for my images of the day). Pancake. Umbrella. Movie projector. Lady with an accent. Lotion. Dust bunnies. Chai latte. Water for Elephants. Mom. Blimey Cow.
(For those of you wondering, Blimy Cow is a YouTube channel that I find highly recommendable.)
So go make that collage, and name it "The Sixth of August" in my honor. You may possibly become famous for it, and I won't even sue you for making money off my idea. You're welcome.
Just a final note to end this short post: deodorant is fickle. And "fickle" is just an inkling of my opinion on deodorant.
...a word is but a shadow of the thought behind it
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