evening primrose…

Oops. I wrote this on Saturday but didn’t finish and publish it. My cats must have flashed something shiny in front of my eyes.

After a Friday evening hanging out with Sarriah, crashing on her sofa, several hours today attending a psychic reading fair in El Segundo (interesting things were imparted to me, much of it confirming things in my career and personal lives that my instincts had told me), more hours traveling via bus and train, I arrived home. I stripped down so that I could relax a bit more – despite my love of clothing sometimes it just gets in the way – and turned on the TV for a short time. I didn’t really want to watch TV, but I thought it would be good background noise while I hunted down a CD and its booklet which had been on my mind for awhile.

I found the CD and booklet: Merrily We Roll Along by Stephen Sondheim, whom I think is probably the greatest lyricist and composer of our time, if not of all time. Every person that knows me knows that I believe he is a musical god. There was a song in particular that I’ve been humming off and on over the last week, so I decided it was time to pop it in and become reacquainted with its lyrics, as I haven’t listened to it in far too long.

I sat on my sofa, booklet in hand as I looked for the lyrics, but I decided to take a spin around the cable channels. Maybe something would pop up. I briefly landed on an odd channel, one that sometimes had infomercials, sometimes had community affairs programs, sometimes art programs. And there on the TV screen was the bright smiling face of Stephen Sondheim, laughing and listening.

Of course I put down the remote.

What I had stumbled upon was a conversation between Sondheim and another gentleman who I didn’t recognize, but who seemed to be a composer himself. Part of a series of conversations held at the 92nd St. Y in New York, it was fascinating, listening to them talk about the craft of composing for theatre and film. Unfortunately I had missed most of it, but it was still fabulous. Especially since they ended the conversation with songs from Evening Primrose, a strange little piece so rarely performed in any way, but one with wonderful music. It was such a treat to see and hear that.

And now I must freshen up, clothe myself once again and off myself to an open mic night at a nearby coffeehouse so that I may determine if I wish to participate in reading my short stories in public and if this place will be conducive to that.

Yep, definitely feeling driven right now. I working on keeping that driven feeling with me for a very long time. And maybe pointing some of that driven energy in the general direction of cleaning my apartment.


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