Listen. Do you hear it? The message of the original language, the divine rhythm, has been put before me for as long as I can remember. It's in the thunder, the crashing of the waves. You can hear it from any seashell. It was hidden in plain sight in Jack and Jill Magazine when I was six. It snaked from Earl Palmer's hands when I was nine. Now Alan Watts reminds me from beyond the grave. The birds and the bears have always spoken to me and sometimes I listened. There were stretches, of course, when the nineteen year old Brigitte Bardot interrupted the flow. Still does.
No more writing about love, I'm loving. While I'm at it, I'm dancing. Singing. I have tuned it in and I've torn the knob off the receiver.
Did rock'n'roll begin in 1947?
Who cares? For me it did.
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