Thank you to anyone who was kind enough to come see us play at any of our shows this weekend. I think all of us Slow Dancers had a great time; I know I certainly did.
I woke this morning alone in my home, feeling rather lonely and blue that those shows had come and gone. We have been playing live a lot these past few months, accepting every show we've been offered, and attempting to make people aware that we exist. I think some people have become aware. Regarding our live performances, we're going to slow down now, and will likely only play one or two more shows this summer.
Well, to conclude this rather pointless blog post, I've transcribed a Robert Graves poem which comes from a book of his I bought yesterday. As it often does, today poetry fills some little hollow in my chest.
THE WINGED HEART
Trying to read the news, after your visit,
When the words made little sense, I let them go;
And found my heart suddenly sprouting feathers.
Alone in the house, and the full honest rain
After a devil's own four-day sirocco
Still driving down in sheets across the valley--
How it hissed, how the leaves of the olives shook!
We had suffered drought since earliest April;
Here we were already in October.
I have nothing more to tell you. What has been said
Can never possibly be retracted now
Without denial of the large universe.
Some curse has fallen between us, a dead hand,
An inhalation of evil sucking up virtue:
Which left us no recourse, unless we turned
Improvident as at our first encounter,
Deriding practical care of how or where:
Your certitude must be my certitude.
And the tranquil blaze of sky etherializing
The circle of rocks and our own rain-wet faces,
Was that not worth a lifetime of pure grief?
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