Decelaraptor

What's to say, anymore?  Endless days of lying on my back, not getting much better as the years drag by the weary days on little snail trails.  Why haven't I been writing?  Depression, anxiety, grief.  Used to inactivity, waisting my creativity, my (admittedly humble) talents.  Poetry.  That's all that's left me.  No music; my left arm's pretty much immobile.  My poor guitars were stolen from me, as well as most of my electronic play pretties. But enough with the moaning.  I need to write (okay, actually I need to act, make music, get on the flo and dance, but....) and write I shall. In other words the wake up call was particularly loud.

Not two days after my last entry, my high blood pressure rose up and gave me the stroke I feared since... I can't remrmber... any way my left side they were paralyzed. Arm and leg, takong their own sweet time recovering.  I also have only my right hand to type with,so I/m gettiinh pretty tired. and so, adios.

They ought to have little homing devices on guitar picks like they do on telephones.  I know the tech is probably out there, just wish someone would get off their buns and make it so. So, yeah, I'm wanting to play Susan, and her pick's missing.  Arlene's got a totally different kind of pick, which is not what my muse is needing at the moment.  They're both classical guitars (but I play them like folk guitars), but they sound different, and I'm in the mood for Susan right now. The music of the spheres is right nice about now. The thunder is rolling and the rain's beating a tatoo.  Hope this means we'll be giving the usual late-summer/early-f