Patty Griffin

The surf is a little rough today as I peek out the window across the dirty road, but it’s still a gorgeous blue and turquoise. Below me the tourists, locals and homeless shuffle down the alcoves of this last little section of fort lauderdale beach hasn’t become the latest victim of the wrecking ball. Soon. I can see a schooner out on the horizon heading south and east, making way to Anguila or Aruba or some unknown port. Wish I was with them. Maybe. How does or could one just hit the ‘road’ and reinvent themselves today? In a world of credit cards and GPS and surveillance cameras. Woody did it, Jack Kerouac did it, Dylan did it. Gordon Lightfoot realized he couldn’t. After all you can’t hop a jet plane like you can a freight train. Yesterday I didn’t even want to get out of the apartment. Last night the drunks in the bars below pretty much kept me up all night. This morning I crept over to buy toilet paper and coffee. The two essentials of life. Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever notices me sitting by the open window watching the waves and the world pass by, writing my way to oblivion all hours of the day. Maybe, maybe not. Who knows what people notice. Right now three men from the city are popping the tops off of a parking meeter. I’ve been listening to a variety of music this morning to try and block out the traffic and garbage trucks and beer delivery rigs. Richard Thompson, Jack Hardy, Patty Griffin. All these endless songs about fuked up lives and lost and broken loves. Sometimes you gotta wonder if all these stories spun have any truth at all. A good spinner can invent anything. Gillian Welch is singing “One and Only.” She’s a very well tuned in thief. God I gotta turn this one up. Slow dance with me baby, just one time….