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It is true that I have grown comfortable with being on standby. It's surely more enjoyable than not being selected. I use an electronic press kit on sonicbids.com and I am currently wait-listed for nine different gigs. This offers a perpetual state of standing-by.
Last summer I was volunteering on the pre-site kitchen crew at Falcon Ridge when a terrific storm came in over the hill. I borrowed a guitar, ran for cover in the medical tent as it was, wrestled with the flaps and settled on the gurney, hanging out, standing by, and playing Etta James' At Last. I had just been not rejected/half accepted for the Mid Point Music Festival in Cincinnati, and I wanted to go. That ominous word, state of limbo, highlighted on the screen in cautious yellow, lingered in my consciousness.
As if the equipment cart viewed my physical state of repose with severe disapproval, I saw a single red crossed finger warning me with singular information to “Stand by.”
Green is my favorite color. I'm proud of this. All shades, even the ones electrified and shocked by the system somehow appeal to me. Surely, it is no mere coincidence that this would be the color of acceptance, envy. I receive automated response e-mails informing me of up-dates. I watch for these. I anticipate, so many clicks, watching for that green go-light kind of a word, selected.
I drove to Ohio in September, played a set... all history. In context, it's now New Year's, and that web site still reads “standby” on my entry. My history lies in a DVD archived in a pile under my window. I need to clear this space. With the typical Eve's activity of pondering goals, I'd like with all due respect to make some things clear. I'd like to go straight to “Go.” Two hundred dollars when I get there sounds wonderful. I'd like to pick this card repeatedly. I'd like to apply for things that I'm 100% sure I am qualified for, able to do and sure I am right for, get the gigs, do the gigs and make mmm… ______ history. I would like my selections to be as those of perfectly-ripened, organically-grown produce. I'm fine with my packaging, require no label and will gladly be transported for safe overnight delivery.
We are being delivered into a New Year. This simple fact and that of time in its magnitude is universal. We all gained one second. They say time, as we know it, is slowing. I've known this for a while now. Tonight's the night we think about the future and pray for peace. Tonight's the night we promise to live in the moment and thrive in peace. I'm here tonight practicing diligence in my beliefs by firelight brighter than the glare of the screen. I would like the world to slow down. I'm practicing music instead of dance, words instead of steps, and hope instead of dread. I'm still not tired. I could have driven to Ohio. I could have flown to Mexico to be with my son. I could have gone dancing. I still can.
According to the Flesch -Kincaid system, my style of prose is honing-in somewhere in middle school. It seems the problem is with my short sentence structure and small words. I wish the President would make a similar self-observation, view his state of severe disapproval, see the millions of crossed fingers wagging, do something with due respect, realize his aptitude for peace and decline. I would like him to choose neither words nor actions. I would like him to know when to walk away, as I do now.
It is 6:30 a.m and I just read your New Year's Eve entry. Pat read it yesterday and and told me it was a "must read". Surprising for him. He took issue with your reference to our president, but you two can discuss that at another time. We love you!!!!!