“Isn’t it good to be lost in the wood...”
The rain's been falling for days it seems, sweeps across the water in layers of grey, ripples from waves to trees. Maybe I never realized it as fully before, as I have recently, how much (for good or ill) I am the product of an era, of people and events beyond my control (as everything is). The image of a dozen or so hippies standing in a hospital corridor after I was born, waiting to see me, snow falling over Cambridge. Blessed later by Satchidananda, though to this day I don't know what good that did me, tragedy found me regardless. I suppose, as with everything, I couldn't even begin to know what blessings I received.
So, the single, strummed, unplugged electric guitar amplified through speakers on Syd Barrett's The Madcap Laughs, the moments on that LP and Barrett, released the year I was born, and which I would only find decades later, resonating as powerfully as the rain I listen to on this porch. A refusal or inability to seek anything beyond a music or sound that can't avoid failure, silence, attempted invisiblity. Ghosts who try to speak through your sleep, had known them all along.