Gathering Steam

The 13-year cicadas are dying off in droves, and I will miss them. They are the rock stars of the insect world, germinating underground for the aforementioned time period before emerging for a very brief (days, my dear) period of singing and fucking. And then it's over. Their offspring, in egg form, will fall from the cracks in trees into which their mothers laid them, make their way back into the ground and then grab onto some root system to find nutrients for the next incubation period. A long time will pass; governments will be toppled, technology will advance, many many dinners will be cooked, cars will be exchanged for newer models, bands will form, bands will dissolve, children will be birthed, children will become overachievers, or junkies, whatever... the cicadas will not care. They will reemerge from the ground again in May of 2024, completely unaware of how the world has changed around them, going right on with making the absolute most of their tiny little lifespans, their song, their sex. Shine on, you red-eyed subterranean commas of nature. It's been emotional.

My new bride and I took a long hike at Percy Warner this morning, breaking a sweat and stimulating our endorphins to a mad wiggle. We saw a crimson skink with an embarrassingly large head poking out of a tree. We passed a couple in their late 50's running up one of the many hills like teenagers on meth. There was light dappling all along the trail in the shapes of hickory and hackberry leaves high above our heads; I noticed the blotch of perspiration between my pectoral and abdominal muscles and wondered if there was a connection there.

Later on at the Nashville Puppet Festival, Davey Ukulele and the Gag Time Gang took the stage at 2:00 and whipped the young ones into a frenzy. My old friend Jill and her husband Chad were in attendance. Jill sat fifteen feet in front of me with her two kids Ollie and Coco and, as I announced that it was time for everyone to do the Rainbow Dance, locked eyes with me for a fertile moment. We shared a good smile about how they time does fly. Professor D.'s song about allergies was particularly effective today, as was Uncle Louis' spoken word about his adventures with cruise ships and meatballs. The ions at the Puppet Festival was bouncing all over the place; it reminded me of the first festivals I ever played with Joe, Marc's brother. There was no pot and no jam bands but the vibe was just as crazy, if not crazier.

Our friends Hal and Kim are cooking us a major dinner this evening. It's a wedding present, and a good one, for what lasts longer than a belly full of beef and a night stuffed with chuckles? Well, fuck me. It has been a royal May in Nashville, one I hope to not forget come next February, when shit goes dark and dingy and moist and morose. I got married to a woman who is, quite literally, the finest specimen I have ever come across. I never quite expected good fortune of this magnitude and my heart verges on the bursting when I step back and get a take a good look at it all.