November 11/2001



It snowed last week. A morning of light rain turned into hail which turned
back again into rain which turned finally into two hours of snow. By the
evening it was nearly gone, only ragged patches left, clumps of dirty white
on the fields. It was difficult, in the dusk, to distinguish snow clumps
from sheep. Sheep moved, the clumps didn't. The clumps were returning, in
a direct and painless way, with a dignity and peace denied the sheep, back
into the earth. As I walked home I stuck to the fence lines, pheasants
chugged from the brecon, rabbits zig-zagged, stars appeared. I spotted what
was either a stoat or a weasel slipping into a hole.

Three weeks in London have left me exhausted - we've recorded and mixed the
new record, to be released, if all goes well, in May. I'm proud of it, it
sounds exactly like what it is - songs played by people. Songs played by
people in the countryside. In Wales. Two weeks in September. A couple
guitars, a bass, drums, some keyboards. Good people, good songs, a good
time. Ewan mixed it in London with Steve Musters and it all went smoothly.
I hung around complaining about the state of the world and telling them to
turn up the bass. That was my job - moan about the news and turn up the
bass. Nice work if you can get it.

Ewan asked me not to read the paper in the studio. He asked nicely. He
said please. He couldn't bear to hear me rant. It brought him down. And
rant I did. Every morning. Read the paper and rant. Rant about America's
appalling and absolutely indefensible bombing of Afghanistan, rant about
Bush's warmongering rhetoric, about the hated Yankees getting into the
World Series, about civilian casulties in Kabul, about some guy in Ohio that
drove his car into a mosque.

Ewan and I talk about energy. He's a rationalist, I'm not. I think maybe
red clothing attracts energy, I think maybe we pick up extra energy from
whatever animals we spend time near. I'm sure energy is deflected and
entangled in electricity. I'm sure I can smell good energy. I worry that
two weeks in an underground studio surrounded by machines, in the middle of
all these swirling ions, eating bad food and watching too much TV, is
playing havoc with my energy fields. I'm sure I'm a mess and I blame
society. I'm not sure about anything, I'm confused and lost. I've become
someone that rants at the morning paper.

So when I do yoga in the morning I end with some extended breathing
exercises. I breathe in and think of nothing. I breathe out and think of
nothing. I try. I do my limited best. But my nothing soon fills up with
something. I think of disrupted energy pathways and broken chi lines. I
think of things like macaroni and cheese. I wonder how tall Otis Redding
was. I wonder, like I once heard a kid ask his mother, if Superman and a
snake had a fight, who'd win?

On Sunday I have dinner with Howie and Eileen. I talk too much about
nothing, I let it all out, I never stop. I barely stop for breath. My food
gets cold. Howie and Eileen smile politely. They're nice people, great
people, the best, so they don't say shut up. They don't put down their
chopsticks and shout SHUT UP NOW YOU FOOL!!! They let me talk too much and they nod and pretend to be interested. That's one of the things that makes
them good people.

Rob takes me first to a church and then to the V & A. The church is
beautiful, we look at the the way the light spills down from round windows,
we stand in the quiet, we read the prayer cards. It's a nice place and a
good thing to do on a Monday afternoon. Then we go to the museum and it's a
waste of time. Oh dear. Such ugly things. We walk around and shake our
heads and wonder about this and suddenly we're having a good time. Rob
tells me about how nice the garden used to be before it was renovated and I
try to imagine it. He shows me the plaques where a former curater buried
his dog.

So today I'm watching birds at the feeder. I'm thinking about Bill Monroe.
I'm remembering the good books I've read in the past month - A Flat Land
Fable by Joe Coomer, Dakota by Kathleen Norris, By Thy Own Hand Unfurled by
Romulus Linney, Circumnavigation by Steve Lattimore. Most of all I'm
thinking of So The Wind Won't Blow It Away by Richard Brautigan. I can't
think of anything better than that book. The smell of it, the delicate
precision, the absolute necessity of it. It somehow sorts me out. Realigns
me, makes curious adjustments. I feel better for reading it, my blood moves
quicker, my knees bend easier, my energy is all just smooth and sweet. I'm
breifly new. And the morning paper, for awhile, doesn't seem quite so
desperate.





jeb loy