What a distinct familiar feeling.
Getting in at 2, waking up in the afternoon, leaving a house I don’t recognize because I’ve only seen it briefly at night. My body is weak, my clothes hang loose, my hair smells a bit of cigarettes. It’s just cold enough outside and everything is red and orange.
Last night was the first time I did some real playing since I arrived.
Musicians are musicians wherever you are. Real Books are Real Books. Softly as in a Morning Sunrise is Softly as in a Morning Sunrise.
That’s the beauty.
How I’m going to get back there again on a Wednesday night? I don’t know.
Am I going to be moved to Mons? I don’t know.
Am I going to have to go to Miami for a week? I don’t know
It’s all about “if”. It’s all about waiting.
Waiting for things to change. Waiting for things to resolve. Waiting to be with you. Waiting to wake up in New York City. Waiting for inspiration. Waiting for my Belgian ID card. Waiting for that shipment of ukuleles to come in.