What to wear, what to watch, what to do, what to read.

The hardest part about playing gigs is trying to figure out what to wear. Maybe folksingers should be like flight attendants and be issued a uniform....I guess an argument could be made that we already wear a uniform (jeans, boots, t-shirts, the occasional hat and super cute vintage dress, boys with beards).  

I watched the first season of a Netflix series titled, "Love." It made me think lots of things such as:

1) I am old. 2) Is that really how modern relationships work? 3) It was so sad. 4) I cried at the very last minute of the last episode thinking that maybe, just maybe, these two people could figure out what love is and how to do it. Up until that point, the LOVE was pretty much absent. 

It's Lent so we go to church on Wednesday nights for supper, then worship, then I lead youth chime choir practice after. Last night I sat down across from some neighbors with my pulled pork sandwich, taco salad, jello salad and potato chips and we reflected on how quickly time has passed. We've been here almost six years. My kids know this place to be home. When they think on their childhood, they'll think on this house, this street, this school, this church. It's a good home. After chime choir, some friends met up at the bar to celebrate a couple of birthdays. It's a good home.

I'm reading this book called, "The Writing Life" by Annie Dillard. It is one of five books given to me by my mother in law for Christmas this year. It is a curious read. For a prose writer, she's not too complementary toward prose writers. What I've learned so far is that, in order to finish a book you have to have access to a cabin or a spooky dusty office in a university library where you work in the middle of the night. It helps if you are a smoker. She makes an interesting obervation that writers write about their childhoods often because their youth is the last time that writers were out living instead of alone in a room imagining life. I relate to some of what she says until I get to a point where I find her experience to be completely alien to the writing life I live.