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I was sitting in my lazy boy, stoned, in a nest of pillows, watching some show through the toes darkly on Netflix or amazon or my own eyelids. The show was over and I was seriously thinking about getting up, eventually, and over the rolling credits was the prettiest damn version of back in the high life again. Though I didn’t catch the second gaffer assistant credit I did let it run.

I’ve always been a big Steve Winwood fan, and I liked the song, but hearing it acoustically, slowed down, with a sensual male voice was … better than my evening had been, an unexpected surprise. It took some searching to find and when I did I realized I had it on my computer all along. Warren zevon.

I have no idea what this has to do with the price of tea in china. I mean it’s possible warren drinks a lot of tea. I think he might have done a lot of china white.

This morning the sky in my Michigan is blue blue, the edges golden and tinged with pink. Not a sky that screams consumerism, a sky that says the birch woods beckon. When I was a child I could read the Michigan sky by day and night. In Portland I had to travel far east or south to see the night time sky, and dark bellied clouds never meant thunder. I miss Oregon, but under the pale dawn this morning, I am appreciative of Michigan.

I cooked thanksgiving dinner for my mom and me yesterday and posted the obligatory and mandatory photo on face book of her eating, though, my motives were a bit less prurient than most such things on facebook. My mom spends a lot of time on facebook noting, but doesn’t quite post and sure doesn’t post pictures. When I hand hear my cell phone she treats it like a wounded bird. There were a lot of emoji’s come my way, even a, I believe, disingenuous ‘That looks so good!’ and some genuine praise for having cooked at all. But it wasn’t about me. I wasn’t in the picture or even suggested I made the meal.

I had a thought that I might be out of sync, trying to get the pulse of topical times with my foot on the knee of modern culture. It was a depressing thought. I think, perhaps out of self defense, that, no, modern culture has a thick and thready pulse, and needs a doctor not a retired mercenary of a social worker. My brother seems to know, if not the pulse, the proper bedside manner.

This summer I felt young and powerful. Today not so much. I may go visit a friends father today, he’s not long for this world. I’ll call him Dr. B and he’ll insist I call him B and I’ll say B you’ve earned the honorific. And we will speak of everything except death. Last time I saw him he read me an article about Bernie Sanders. I wish I didn’t feel like such a kindred spirit with the dying.

Dare I eat a Peach? I’ve heard the mermaids singing each tweach. Bangs and whimpers kids, bangs and whimpers.