I've been here and there and everywhere but where I want to be which is the Piano. And all the spare times I've got so far aren't enough for Beethoven. Beethoven will demand. I'm not feeling it yet. It's not there. It hasn't even started. And I have been thinking a lot about a certain Rondo Capriccio, some G Major, a little Rage over the Lost Penny. Why am I thinking about a Next when I haven't begun the Now? Because that's me. How infuriating.
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I got a package from my uncle a while ago. He had said the last time the Rivals met that if the Cards won he would send me the baseball that he caught at the Cubbies minor league game one of the numerous times he snuck in. they stop checking the gates after the third inning and you just gotta look like you belong there, you know how it is. We didn't beat the Cubs - we didn't beat ANYone - but he sent me the baseball. It is brownish and weathered and smells just like my uncle, a deep deep smoke smell, heavy cigarette smoke and the faraway drifty smoke that comes through the wood when they burn the fields. The smell has been on my hands all day. It makes everyone else sick but I don't want to wash it away, not yet. My uncle is funny. He tells me the same stories on the phone every time. Everyone says the drinking is what took his mind and memory and I would believe it if I had time to, but I don't between listening to his recount of a day spent with his granddaughter Nevaeh that's heaven spelled backwards, and laughing helplessly at his Oh my GAWWD stories about vultures and caves and Tippy the Tapeworm and homeless women, and smiling when he starts one more time into at the Minor League Stadium they stop checking the gates around the third inning, ok, and
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