Union, Onion

Today, I am working on writing performance poems, based on the ghost stories of the new Miserable Rich record, for the tour in October/November. It’s a curious and wonderful situation. To write for work that’s already …written…

But I needn’t tell you, how easily I might find something confusing.

This morning I joined the Musician’s Union. A trade union for people who don’t really do any work. I’m paying my dues monthly. I have public liability insurance. I am a liability and I get more public every day. I am a musician, so my career actually costs me money. Very glad to be a member of the Union, though. I wonder when we go on strike…

I jest, of course.

This week I’m meeting with three different people about making three different pieces of film, of my own face. I get the feeling that I actually seek out bewilderment.

Has anyone seen a show at Platt Chapel? I’m very excited to be wondering about running a show there. Only because it has a graveyard. I’ll tell you all about the idea as and if and when it materialises.

Also, soon, I’ll be planning a studio session, for the last few pieces to be put down for my record. I mean to do them in front of an audience. So, you will all be invited to come to Limefield, where you’ll be fed and watered and I’ll sing little songs to you. I really can’t wait to do that.

Last night, Biff Roxby (Louis Barabbas and the Bedlam Six) cooked for me. Today, he’s remixing a song of mine. Soon, we will be married.

Good luck, to you all