its not my guitar, but the snowshoe lets be borrow it from time to time. we would clap and hum along to our favorite tunes during those holidays we would spend tucked away in those sleepy towns along the southern coast of the isle of man. and the fresh mead prepared by benedictine monks would flow freely from the casks until we lay drown in sheer hebetude, minds and bodies slown down by the bee butter ferment.amazing to awake to the sound of a baby kodiak snoring on the other side of the wood panelling. a debate ensuses about whether the lesser panda is actually a bear or more of a fox, or a marsupial even, but then, are there even marsupials in southern asia? and would a wombat eat bamboo? eucalyptus probably tastes similar.the little mischievous one refuses to stay away from the spider fern. until that unfortunate day after we played chess on the patio, and he played me a new song he had written, and i loved it. i mentioned something about playing covers of his stuff on the road, and that after we returned from japan i might want to commit some of it to 2" tape. and it was that very night that he was bitten on the hand by a blue-tounged skink, which i'm not sure is necessarily poisonous, but he had a terribly adverse reaction to the bite, and his playing has never been quite the same since. forever a reminder of that day in the wild. and i noticed when i woke up today, that we are actually so much alike. but i haven't told him that.
