March, 1975 (Bard, Senior Year)

This is taking way. Too. Long.

But then again, compared to what? We've only socialized one true feral before, and truth be told, she ain't exactly the best company, even after like fifteen years.

We caught Coyote (apt name, eh) more than five weeks ago now, but he was already more than six weeks old - maybe eight? - and as soon as we opened the cage, he disappeared into the baroque nightmare clutter of my daughter's room without a trace. He only came out to eat, when no one was around, and the few times we caught a glimpse of him, he hissed with tiny but authentic ferocity before vanishing into the chaos again.

But I've been taking time to sneak into the room and sit quietly till he peeks his head out, talking low-volume/high-pitched baby talk at him for a few minutes at a time. And now our little sessions last for as much as five minutes of eye contact, at a distance of only three feet or so.

We'll get there. We will.

Still Grazin' After All These Years

It's mid-July, but the weather has been chilly and grim here for a while now. There's no doubt that my  feelings about this are affected by where I'm spending my workdays right now - in a grimy building set in a truly bleak neighborhood - because ugly places look worse in bad weather.

But today we had some visitors across the street, and they lifted my spirits by their sheer incongruity: a herd of goats, whose herder must have gotten hired by either the city or the owner of the vacant lot this building overlooks, to graze back the tall brush and weeds before the fire season.

I took a break to walk across the street and say, Hey, goats. I was so pleased to see them. They made this place look wild and beautiful for a few minutes.

I am NOT repeating myself; I'm chanting.

I'm not sure if it's possible to engage in any creative pursuit - be it writing, music, art, dance, cooking, gardening, or architecture - without unwittingly (or wittingly) covering some of the same ground from time to time.

I think that as long as you keep the similar creations reasonably far enough apart in time, you're OK. And of course, if anyone calls you on it, you can say it was intentional; that these are your themes.

Yeah, that's the ticket...themes....

In that case, one of my themes is our struggle to hold on to our real values, the ones that we hold closest in our hearts, even in the face of counter-winds that blow relentlessly in our face till we feel like our sails could be ripped clear away and our ship thrown against the cliffs.

Best example: feeling ashamed when you have no wealth or property. Mind you, there's nothing wrong with wanting or having wealth, especially if you don't don't take it too seriously; but to feel like a failure, like a loser, because you've gotten your ass kicked sideways in the financial realm, well, that's wrong, wrong, wrong. I knew it was wrong when I was fourteen, for chrissake.

So why does it still keep me up at night?

July 4, 1976

The nicest praise I think I've ever received

 - and I share this in full awareness that I may come off as vain and foolish, but as Popeye always said, "I yam what I yam" - is when I overheard someone sitting in front of me at a small acoustic gig a few of us were about to play at say, "Hey, I've heard these guys before - they're good. Especially the lead singer. He has a great voice!"

Now, why would this please me so much? Well, he didn't know I was sitting behind him, so his comments were unsolicited and sincere. And that's rare, since so much of what we say to each other is heavily freighted with personal politics: we say things because we want to have some specific effect on the listener, for good or bad.

And it's also because, for me, singing is as close as I get to a purely childish pleasure. When I write - either prose or songs - I enjoy myself, especially when I finish a piece I like, but it's very conscious, for the most part; I'm editing and thinking and making decisions as I go along. Pretty much the same when I play guitar or mandolin or harmonica.

But when I sing, I'm not really thinking. Which, for me, is like a kind of vacation.