The Boy Likes Gin

Head ache

A resolution stumble.  But back walking, and talking, and resolving.  I think.

Pen friend

A letter to a wonderful friend. Because words (and pens) are all that I have to give. 

Crushed

When you know you know, you might not know. But I know that I know that I know that I like him. I think. But I don't know if it's not a no.

The Dad Shadow

Seeing Dad, wonderful Dad, in a different light, via bruised knees and egg sandwich imaginings.

No time to breathe.

This is what classical music does to me. Recorded, loaded and released within minutes of the conductor's baton tumbling to the ground, while the torment and joy is still coursing, uncontrolled, through every part of me. 

My voice, my voice, my kingdom for my voice.

Fear can slow me, age can stall me, fashion faux pas can haunt me, but nothing will ever, ever mute me. Not again. Never again. 

In the name of all that is holy, put the camera down.

Classical music is my religion, and my salvation. Camera-toting audience members (and bassoon players) are the devil's agents.  

That's all, folks

Mum and Dad are getting old. I have become an adult. I am scared, and feeling terribly sad at the idea of them not being around. Even if I have a lifelong fear of grapes. Thanks Mum!  

Keep on running.

Over styled and under experienced. But not even the Sahara Desert can beat this determined fool.

Bun fight at the O.K Corral

To him it was just a table to sit at. He had no idea the sacred ground he was treading on. He does now.