John Williams and Julian Bream. Hokusai. A day in the Life.
T.S. Eliot. Bach and Britten’s Requiem. Mozart Piano Concerti – especially 20.
The things I return to. Crutches when I feel weak, tired. Or low. Or all three.
And Bessie Bighead. Bessie always reminds me of the precarious balances. Happy and sad. Alive and not.
Alone until she dies, Bessie Bighead, hired help, born in the workhouse, smelling of the cowshed, snores bass and gruff on a couch of straw in a loft in Salt Lake Farm and picks a posy of daisies in Sunday Meadow to put on the grave of Gomer Owen who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she wasn’t looking and never kissed her again although she was looking all the time.
Under Milk Wood