And The Wild Rumpus Goes On
[thirteenth life-in-music post]
There was a time when a girl named White Wave lived with her mother whose name meant row boat. And with her brother who was named after the prophet who got swallowed by the whale. And with her father whose name simply meant ‘the king’ — not a liquid name, yes, but given that a record inspired by ‘Max the king’ is at hand, ‘the king’ should fit right well in too. And that wild mix of characters all lived together in the murky flood lands of Sampaloc. And that was a long time ago.
Recently, for four days and three nights, White Wave rolled to another island. She did not camp this time. Again, she was sent off by the powers, to the powers. She was housed in a white palace and was treated like a goddess.
She is right now making an inventory of all her riches. She has a lot, more than she’ll ever know — she’s pretty goddamned blessed.
And she’s seeing it glitter, she’s seeing it shine, her brightest gem at the moment – her freedom. How she fought so hard for it.
She has to remember this every time she tends to whine and pout and throw tantrums about not being with the man of her house yet and other crap like or related to that.
Not alone, never alone — free.
Oh what a comfort…
And she ought to wrap up the inventory tonight by unpacking the luggage and checking if she did not forget a bikini in the island.
I don’t feel like writing for the powers yet, but I feel like drawing —
— to the tune of Where The Wild Things Are’s humming. Drawing from the wild!
Thank you to the wild and the forces of life and Whatchamacallit laughing from home above.
Send me off again! Quick! Weeeeeeeeeeee!