Rock is not dead, it's dying. There is still life in it, yet little. Remember how all the fairies and lost boys started to dim and disappear when nobody believed in them? (Pan) Transpose this concept to rock music. No one believes in rock and roll anymore. the jig is up, the secret's out, the illusion has been revealed and explained. The magic is leaking, spilling, spreading across the ground like Cobain's blood. Kids don't believe in the words anymore, they only trust in the rhythms; techno: wicked soul thief, like Ursula the sea witch who stole Ariel's voice, then used it against her, being the octo-bitch that she was. Rock lived when Rock had something to say. When Rock had the will to speak up and out. When Rock spoke because no one else would. Rock lived when the spirit of Rock was alive. When artists died for their craft (Rip Winehouse). I'm telling you, people believed in Music once upon a time; Morrisey among them. But now their is no belief, just a lukewarm, blind, uneducated, dimwitted trust. Electricity has no substance to grasp, it commands us to dance, and we dance. Because it feels good (Beat so fat gonna make me come - Ke$ha). There is no resistance, we submit and allow the river carriage. Rock and Roll was about the wind. Don't make me quote Pochahontas for the Disney hat-trick. Rock and Roll was carried by the whim of the wind; there weren't any pressing demands, unlike this bossy techno which slaps you around. The wind is free-form, fluttering, afloat. The river rushes, plunges, roars, and slams. Plant's voice comes to mind, as does Buckley's. Hendrix' hands and Marley's dreds, Angus' sweat, Lennon's glasses, Dylan's neigh, Reed's disposition. Funny, Rock and Roll used to have some meat, eh? Used to coalesce, used to Come Together, be integral. On the wind, each particle is free; an individual. In the river, every particle runs together, blends, gives... It's a mishmash, everyone is everyone else, can't tell one from the other, but it's all the same anyway. Water is recycled, but wind is resolute. Wind carries itself while gravity carries water. Rock has gone soft. But if it were hard once, it can be hard again. Rock just needs something to get it hard, sayin'? Somethin will change, Rock will experience revival, resurrection, and it will respond and be restored. Rock needs to get excited. Rock bored. Rock need inspiration. Rock waiting for new girl. And I've landed on it: Rock fell out of love. Rock sad. Rock lost Jane. And her addiction. Now Rock is pretending to dance while apes beat on tree trunks with palms. So, to bring Rock back, just stand up for Rock, and speak Rock's mind. When Wendy said "I believe in fairies." She could fly, she could fly, she could fly, she could fly, she could fly... So if you believe in Rock, you will rock, you will rock... Be patient with Rock, Rock is trying. Don't give up on Rock.

Here in this world to be salt and light. Caught in between improvise and recite. Oh, what a pleasure; the plot and the plight! To be in this world as salt and light. The salt of the Earth, we season the land. Distinguishing savour, we bear the true brand. But if ye be tasteless, you're good as the sand to be trod underfoot, and cast out overhand. The light of the age, He calls us to shine. The task of his brilliance did Jesus assign to all who will follow and who should decline? Which of us hides, saying "No, this is mine"? So look to the city that sets on an hill and if ye be salted, then salted be still. Thirst after righteousness, have at thy fill! On Earth as in heaven, make done thy good will. _____________________ (see Matthew, chapter 6)

Squirrel creeps round the tires of my car parked outside; I'm watching from upstairs, out the window, through the screen. Turn to look again, and gone is he now; bushy tail vanished behind the curtain of time, off to find new bark to climb, more nuts to gather, another powerline to gracefully scale. Sad to see any event depart from me, for I am left to find a new event over which I can pour the contents of my thoughts. My thoughts are like water, invisible water, and my lips and fingertips are my watering pail; everything I see and hear I imagine to be a flower, or plant, and when I apply my thoughts, they are fed and nourished, becoming saturated, though not overtly so, and they are glad at their good fortune as they stretch and grow, reaching toward the great sphere of light that poureth out more nourishment than I ever will. I look up to the sun, and I encourage that old ball of rays and heat. I'd put my coat over a puddle if we should be walking together. I'd do anything to help. Desperate to help! I admire His handiwork, and like a child who watches his father work on the truck, or throw a football over the house, or shuffle a deck of cards like a bridge, I long to do the work of the Sun. Oh, Greatest Sun, thou art a father to me. (Catch my drift?) Oh, Sun of Suns, your light and your warmth sustain me. You are ignited, and you show me the way from here to there. Without you, oh Sun, the way is dark and far from known. Envelop me in thy brightness! Engulf my life in those flames that purify and cleanse; heal and restore! Burn away those parts of me that have no more bearing, purpose, significance. You are the undying phoenix, the continual rebirth, the ongoing reincarnation; You be- coming me, and me becoming you. Come into me and make dead these dying traits of my frail humanity. Put me out of my misery, sweet Sun! I cry out like some tortured animal, like some cat with skin rent, my fur disheveled and dirty, crying out from the fence post, over the moon and into the night. Hear my cry, and come, as the veterinarian of veterinarians. Reach out your hand and stroke my back, behind your touch, my skin and my fur shall be made new. Touch your fingers to my throat, as if to take my kitty pulse, and behold, my vocal chords will be made deep and resonant, with a pleasant sound, and I will pur as you linger. Pluck me from this empty fence, this desolate alley, this lonely moon, and find for me a new home, where I might have a warm bed and a fresh litterbox. To let your thoughts carry you away is at once the best and worst thing you could let happen; but alas! this is what writing to music does to me! I get carried by the notes and the voices of the men and women, and before you know it, I am off! I am interpreting the sounds, and my thoughts are becoming themselves by way of my fingers, and I am along for the ride. It is fun to write. And here, I find myself in a place where I have been before. A no fly zone; the air seems to tell me that I have nothing left to say, and so I should stop saying, and let the sayings be said. For, it says, you have said too much before, and when too much is said, it becomes un- intelligible, and the readers then no longer comprehend your meaning. Brevity is the essence of wisdom, said Shakespeare, after all. So leave it here, wring your mind no more, treat it not like some rag, with which you must clean this computer screen; this will suffice, the rest is up to them. And with that, goodbye! :)