in the cottage on a hill by the beach, where pink and red flowers green foliage satisfying the food chain for the bees and insects line the sandy gravel path to the wooden door of hidden seclusion of a la maison blanche (the white cottage) past the aluminum kitchen to the opening where i sit planted to a white couch or a mangled bed, or standing with guitar in hand for hours and hours at end. we can't explain the madness that is growing around us as Maxim Velour scurries around hooking up this microphone and that chord. we are finally setting the PA up. Deciding which mixing board to use, one is for recording, the chaos of finding the cables, the clips, or a working 9 volt adaptor since the houseguest is a mad organzing-cleaning fiend. "just put the pedal back in the stash when you're done," she says and I am quite happy with the different rock sounds coming out of my amp and the re-adjustment of my strap and the new techniques I've picked up in the last few months.
two hours later with electricity. with a sigh of relief or happines or excitement i swizzle down my soy latte and bagel with peanut buttre food and music in my stomach easing us into the slow country road ride of our first song...
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