Sunflower County

It is hot. I am sitting in my studio, a little sticky. Just writing. It's nicer outside where I can water the garden and admire the sunflowers... but that's a fifteen minute task. My paintings are inside and waiting to be finished. There are also headlines to ponder and cats to feed.

I've been distracted by the collapsed bridge in Minneapolis. I have friend that teaches at the art school there and I'd love to know she's ok. Readers may also have noticed that I have a great respect for the Mississippi River. It isn't a body of water to be taken in stride or to be considered a place for recreational boating. I've posted my memories of the Mississippi before but most of my tales take place on the other end of da rivah.

A musician friend once spent several months sleeping at the mouth of the Mississippi in NOLA. It was back in the day when one could hear David Bowie break out into spontaneous version of Fame at Pat O'Brien's. Of course he was surrounded by drunks who didn't seem to notice. It probably wasn't his crowd. Sometime before that childhood friend also watched a friend's car roll into the Mississippi River from the huge levee that runs the length of the Delta.

I doubt it was like that scene in Risky Business since my high school buddies were more concerned about the ounce of pot in the glove compartment of their ancient land yacht than they were about explaining the vehicle's loss to any person of authority. He wrote a song about it. I don't remember the lyrics but it was definitely performed to a blues beat.