this post is for

stove, who's right that I should be contributing more to the social experiment. So here's what I will say. This day began well, with actually getting up and making breakfast and writing. It began with waking up and not feeling the dread of alienation from loved ones. In other words, a relief of a morning. That the soy milk curdled when the espresso hit it was frustrating, the moreso that the soy latte was part of the treat for the writing, which though not entirely sucessful, happened.

You would do well to note the conjoined frustration and illumination; that was my day.

This morning: dear A sitting on the bed playing his guitar while his son P sat on the floor facing him, playing a recorder. They sang a song about a shark who turned into many different things, including a pumpkin. P did some rockin recorder solos. A kept asking P what happened next, and when P told him he would make up a verse around it. The verse about the pumpkin who drank juice that turned all his teeth red, except one tooth, who turned out to be named Fred, reminded me of one of the Camp Favorite Moose songs. You know the one.

Later P and I sang the most intense version of "Masters of War" ever. We stared into each other's eyes and I sang the real lyrics and he echoed with made up words that ended in the same rhythmic drawn-out growl as Dylan. That kid is one smart cookie. And he makes a good egg. I like that I can play the guitar well enough to sing a song about a museum with dogs on the wall instead of paintings.

I like that P listens to me. A good egg. Stove. I like my good eggs.