Socializing in the evening with a friend, we visited Clark’s Lounge in Beach Park, IL, and I took notes. Cleaned up a bit I lay them down. No apologies necessary, none taken.
11-30-12 into December
Floating the lights, touching deep into the motion of your heartfelt songs. I ride the dream woven view and enjoy time with the lights thus enjoined. I remember the warmth of a summer day smile shining in the bright blue sky of your loving eyes. Always and forever, each moment fresh and new, I find my dreams have all come true in the warm embrace of knowing you.
If I were to bind your eyes to a single photon, what would you think of the noise it cannot make?
A spell of transition holds the energy directive, entertainment realizes alternative venue and a different kind of light shines the culture defining aspect of its own programmed , and limited, view upon my creative efforts. Observation wall. Motion, in so many attentioned smiles, fills the parameter aspects of this moment of night. A sectioned time of travail in sequence and tribulation to the almighty collar has terminated this evening, and the general populace is granted respite from their daily labors. A pair of days (pare-a-daze) holds stead in broad action options, choice leading to chance and following the dictates of (impulsive) reason like a fish pushing upstream in the turbulent river of life. The next segment of financial toil yet labors under wraps in weight for the heavy hand of Monday. But tonight’s festive mood rains supreme for the illusory moment and gives dance to the songs we sing in our hearts, the band easing this along quite nicely. I feel the sway, I share the harmony, I hold my own dreams in comparison to the music pouring from the heart , hand and voice centered on the stage of focus, just as everyone else here does.
Is there a potential to this moment beyond any other possibility? What one eye sees another eye reflects in the view of an occupational dreamer.
Multi-leveled energies stack each moment upon the base foundation of the previous moment, yet totally separate in effect as the basis for the next.
Play, my stroking pen. (Play, Maestro: King Pen) And so it is written off as a song and dance routine Friday night at Clark’s, with the music hard driving harmonized into the flash of lights, figures and eyes, all moving to the groove of the evening. The songs cradled the mood like a trusted friend, letting the smiles flow free as conversation splashed among the clattered bottles and tilted brews. Togetherness is a powerful word that holds the world in its shine, and that shine sparkle-showered this festive crowd like a shooting star sky, even touching upon atavistic tribal unity, in common cause for the fun and entertainment of all. The place was rockin’.
If there were no flowers
I wouldn’t notice it at all
If there wasn’t any music
I wouldn’t miss its seductive call
If mountains were to disappear
I wouldn’t miss the lovely view,
For my beauty and my song of life
Is the joy I get from loving you (Country-type songs inspire the like)
A vibrant smile of light manifests away from constellationed periphery into focus and attention, giving query as to what you are reading here while I sat writing it. I described yourself to her and was informed of kindred ambitions (mine, not yours), the stories of a lifetime all waiting to be told for those who would read if only they were written. Yet hope lies not lightly across the structure of this sentence, giving identity to what is needed but still gently pointing out that the actual act of writing puts for great strides toward something being written. Introductions found the situation to accompanied Friday night faces, shining their own light into the forthcoming weekend, and a reach from eyes to hands in gestured introduction and greeting was paired. Mornamorations!
A line of transition leads to the music as it vibrates on the floor of consciousness and feet, in the solid stepping night.
It’s all about dreams and how we channel energy toward achieving them, or yield to inaction and let them remain no more than dreams. Some people are content to watch their dreams across their span of life like pictures in a box on the wall, letting themselves be entertained into lethargy and complacence. Some people put action to their dreams and realize that each moment working towards their fulfillment is a dream come true unto itself. Doing is believing. To be able to share the fruits of this effort in heart-driven music is a privilege and inspiration, giving energy to my own muse in spreading the light of creativity. The song of the artist well played, write on.
The passions of creativity run deep in the music of this night, when hard work given time and again enables the stories of a heart to share song with another.
America is lost in the bars and music halls of small towns found in dreams of long ago, across the beautiful lawn on the other side of the fence we call memory. Friends are one of the threads from which we weave the fabric of our lives. Fare thee well.