maybe i’m dreaming. i don’t know, or care. took this picture-that-looks-like-a-painting-but-that’s-just-how-it-looks-here of my Telecaster from a new favourite singing spot, its sunburst-finish drinking the last dregs from the sky from inside my pack. replenishing its glow. i’m here on the north coast of São Jorge, in the Azores, for most of April, to finish writing album number six, hike into its most remote fajãs, find some peace of mind, drink too much Portuguese wine, and to finally, finally, finally, finally, finally sing out loud again, after a few months of feeling like a piano on a sunken ship.
to Queen Victoria’s ghost: i won’t be needing the lodge after all. or at least not yet.
some show announcements soon, i hope; i’ve been working on something very special for months, with someone’s help.
or, if this is indeed a dream, it’s fine with me. back to the cliffs now with my guitar, to be (further) seasoned by Poseidon. or maybe into the sky with the birds. or maybe i’ll just keep sitting here with this stray cat in my lap for a while; a new, dear friend who looks a lot like an old, dear friend.
love,
eric.
