The last week or so, I've once again found myself in one of those not-so-fun artistic places, where I have found myself starved for inspiration... For a nice visual/auditory metaphor, just think of the little ball clacking around inside a nearly-empty can of spray paint, as you're shaking it to try and get those last few little spritzes out of it.

This particular piece developed out of simply writing down a few words here and there, which came to me during an outdoor guitar practice one morning a couple of weeks back (late May of 2022), and I eventually found myself satisfied enough with the result, (even with recurrent distractions/interruptions from a bratty-and-entitled dog) that I decided to try it on a larger scale over a period of non-consecutive days, where I consumed a medical cannabis edible before practice (non-consecutive, because I don't use them on a daily basis -- only on those days, where my knees and/or lower back are bothering me a bit more than usual, with the added bonus that I can play for longer without aches and pains likewise settling into my hands).

On the worst of the artistically-starved days, sometimes guitar practice is an escape hatch... Some days, guitar is an all-too-brief respite, because even if the poetry of words isn't coming to me, there is a far more visceral and elemental poetry that comes from my fingers on the strings.

It is my intention that the much larger piece, titled: Poetry of the Strings will appear fairly soon after this one, which I feel works best as a prelude to it.

There is a fair amount of Midlife Crisis angst in the piece, but I would also like to think that there are also places, where I have managed to get across the point of it being a brief, artistic respite...