The hope of owning that book is lost to me now – I forget the title, the writer and have no guess as to how to search for it, even in this age of the search engine.  I remember its charm and whimsey, the delicate nature of the records, the tiny observations that verged on precious, but I can’t find it.

I have my own lists now – not obsessive, not orderly, but I have them.

On-paper, I refer to these: to-do; grocery; travel; wine; birthday cards. Off-paper, there are: likes; dislikes; fears; loves; hates; grudges; things I should have said; things I should not have said; things I should have taken back after I said them (impossible); bad shows; good shows; no-shows; performance invitations I declined that I should have accepted and vice versa; secret material wishes; things I would change physically – character flaws, too; huge gaffes both professional and personal; long harboured bad deed guilts; lies I wish I hadn’t told; truths I wish I hadn’t told; animal names for when I again have a dog; letters I didn’t answer; favourite chip flavours in descending order; regrets.

These come off the top of my head at the moment, of course – there are many other lists I have missed. Of the above, however, regret stands out. It’s the one I least regret.

I could list many bad decisions, but given the richness of my life right now, I feel that I’ve made only a few mistakes. Others might disagree. If necessary, they could make a list of the dozens of stumbles and almost purposeful missteps that turned me away from opportunity, took me down the path of stupid.

For now, I’m sticking to my own list of lists. A fellow songwriter once wrote “my face is a map of my time here”.  My face is not so poetic. My lists are a map of my life. So far.

Here’s a tune. Hope you like it.

06 Boy on a Bicycle

There are guitars hanging on the wall of my small studio. I walk by it dozens of times a day on my way to the room in which my computer waits. Every time, I feel a pang of guilt and make a mental note to next time enter it. Guilty days go by and I never step into the little room, never touch a guitar, a pen – never cross the threshold. Never ponder anything more than a sore hip or when I might be able to travel to Florence.

My guilt about avoiding the office is not equal to the the guitar guilt. It’s worse, because I know it’s a part of my work and I can’t get around it.  I can’t skip by the dining room, either, which looks like the back room of a Shopper’s Drug Mart postal outlet. Tape gun, return address rubber stamp, padded envelopes, black Sharpie (so different than a Shar-Pei), stamps and a postal scale. And the telephone. It weighs 100 pounds and I have to be in particularly good nick in order to pick it up, whether it be answering or calling. It’s a glamourous life I lead.

When I muse over the keyboard like this, I recall a friend’s recent comment: who cares? In response, I might have quoted Roscoe Holcomb, the departed claw-hammer banjo player and old time singer. Talk about a high lonesome song. After a performance, a man told him that the song sounded good enough, but that he couldn’t hear the words. Holcomb replied: Mister, I was singin’ that for me – not you.

Some days are like that. Some blogs are like that.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApwS4L8exYo

He’s singin’ that for him. Not us.

The Bridge Of San Luis Rey is one of the finest books I’ve  read. This was Thornton Wilder’s “breakthrough” book. What does that mean? Breakthrough. Most people know him for Our Town. He once said something to the effect of “every actor should read ‘Our Town‘ every five years”. It’s like any art, I guess – good to glance back at it from time to time. It’s a great way to measure the change in oneself, if measuring change in oneself has value.

We see the physical change, of course – just line up my CD covers – now that’s change. Go inside, and you find the greater change. I remember running in to Bob Snider after not having seen him for many years. I said, without a thought, “Bob, you haven’t changed a bit” (big lie that everyone tells when they meet an old friend). He replied, “Gee, I hope I’ve changed”.

This guy is Thornton Wilder, not Bob Snider.

Oh, and – re: the N1H1 vaccination: you decide, but think on this.

And remember, masks do nothing.

Cheers, ’til next time.