There are thoughts, memories, floating around in my primordial ooze. They float like big, puffy, white, cumulus clouds on a hot summer breeze, materializing out of and dematerializing into, thin air.
They sail like ships across the surface of the ooze, but sometimes they may dive below the sticky, viscous surface and get lost for years sailing around the thick deep. Or perhaps, they are not below the surface, but rise above it, and sail across the vast wild blue yonder of my mind. Where exactly they are, I don't know. They are not lost. They are there. They are.
I took an interest in music at the age of 12 or so. 7th grade. 1972. I heard what my older brother and sister played. Jimi Hendrix. The Doors. Santana. Janis Joplin. Richie Havens. Jefferson Airplane. Blind Faith. Savoy Brown. The Rolling Stones. James Taylor.
Turntables. Eight track tapes. Reel-to-reel. Hi-Fi. LP. Vinyl. The guys and gals who envisioned and created digital music and the iPod were not even born yet, I bet.
James Taylor was one of my favorites. I am a churning urn of burning funk.