falling, weaving softly. Dreams are silken strands of longing. Such are the words in my head today while the notes that float in the soft bosom of winter seem to fall so quietly around me. I practice, knowing that my fingers need to retrace the paths and chords of such familiar songs to me, but my heart is singing in weird parallels, new notes, new words while my fingers ache to map the shape of my longings. The snow is relentless today, blowing in from the West in a dark cauldron of clouds. Now, all is white, and I feel cushioned in it's reverie. After a week of writing mailers, and focusing intently on the new CD, I stand at the window and find myself drifting in the undulating patterns the snow makes within the sky. My focus dissolves into the peaceful chaos of such vast tonal beauty and all I want to do is write and sing the song that nature presses beneath my eyes, and on my waiting skin. My thoughts swirl around Arachne and Ariadne for no apparent reason and the weaving quality of the words that come are almost mesmerizing. I feel transfixed and play over and over....



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