The Boy Likes Gin

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

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

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.

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

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. 

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. 

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

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!  

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

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