Watch July fly by. The hands on my clock point to 5 and 9 but I can't be held down by chronological chains. If you must measure my existence do so by the tree rings, flood lines or in dog years. I've been around the block a few times and I've seen plenty. I'm old enough to sing the blues.Yes and young enough to run circles around a lot of youse. Look out here I come, the low tech dinosaur carrying yellow ledger pad & pencil and who claims a synthesizer will never replace fingers on strings. Making art is time out of mind. In the throws of creativity everything is as it should be in a state of timelessness and full of grace.The rest of the time I feel gravity aging all things and I long for the lightness of heaven.

While busking an outdoor market at the train depot I took a couple of cents out of my guitar case and meandered over to the tracks. I spit on the small sum and stuck it to the rail. This is something I did many times as a kid but today as the ol' draWriter I'll have to pass it off as research. Inspiration like the spirit is always afoot. Any minute the 419 of the southern specific RR would rumble and roar through here w/o stopping. At that loud cataclysmic moment one coin would hold fast on a shaking rail while the other coin would drop clear of the mighty locomotive. One penny would be changed forever in a twinkling of an eye and the other would remain in tack as recognizable currency.The one transformed is without face nor date and has transcended the borders of country. A paper thin puddle of copper, metal w/o memory,it possesses no recollection of the business of hands. This radically retired revenue went out in a blaze of glory.It barely resembles the dull brown penny it used to be.Instead it's curious shape reflects the sun like water.It tells it's own tale and by this the castaway coin has been redeemed, increasing in value ten fold. So my friend when you addressed the faraway look in my eyes with the old adage " a penny for your thoughts" I was pondering these things from above.

Sunday I played a farmer's market in small community nestled high in the mountains. The first of the peaches and cherries were shown and the town folks came in droves.Between songs I saw a woman making her way towards me. Her face was bright and her eyes told me she had a message to deliver.Over time I've learned to recognize when a messenger approaches.So I paused before launching into the next song. She drew close to my side like she had a secret in her mouth then offered "When my father was alive he used to tell me..."Always pay the musician."I grinned and returned with..."How fortunate for me." We talked a bit more about how those people in our lives who though no longer with us still live on through the memory of things they have said to us. "I can recall the sound of his voice through those words "she added. With that she laid a buck in my open guitar case , wished me well and disappeared into the crowd. It's curious that just prior to her arrival I had been pondering what motivates a passing person to tip the minstrels .On a different sort gratuity, I have been amazed on occasion that there are "divine tips","pennies from heaven"or better yet"imparted wisdom" inserted into the context of the most unlikely of conversations.I also question myself just how receptive I may or may not be to the things of the spirit.Do I really have ears to hear and eyes to see?

For the moment your non stop energy is suspended motionless spinning like a hummingbird ready to dart away.I feel holiness also hovering nearby and I hold my breath. I'm transfixed by the mirror reflection of us both in the calm waters surrounding you. I sense the generations of those who have sat quietly with paper and pen drawing what they see.In your chair poised and focused I catch a glimpse into the journey of an eternal soul. The fresh beginnings of new hands and an uncluttered mind, free from restraints and criticism.You will witness times I will not live to see but for now I will run with you.Take the torch from my hand and follow your own course. Don't look back, soon enough this will be your world to better...

Like an angel in the works,Found Art is formed by unseen forces.Unnoticed and passed by, such are the anonymous artifacts I have discovered at many a crossroads. In this case I imagine a simple spool of baling wire bounced off the back of a pickup truck and thereafter every vehicle that followed unconsciously collaborated in flattening the sprung spool into a metal sculpture. A work in progress, how long did it lay there as homeless as roadkill being slowly spread apart?By a thousand tires a hundred feet of spiral steel line has been altered beyond usefulness. The warped wire has been violently transformed into a one of a kind piece of found art. Rubber polished and rain rusted it resembles metallic pasta. It's vortex birdnest shape has the movement of high winds like a cast iron tornado...perhaps a warning sign of a great twister looming on the horizon.Just why it was waitng in my path has not been fully revealed but I did recognized it as something extraordinary the moment I came upon it.