frappe is a New England word

My psyche has been pounded lately. There’s no better way to say it. Deep, emotional, bang-a-gong wacks up the side of the head pounded. All around the heart as well. I’m not a victim. I’m not complaining. This is reporting. Couch surfing – on Electric Avenue, in Electric Ladyland.

You know what else? Nobody’s been calling me. Like saying birds sing in the morning. Basically nobody returns calls, from spoken messages left, text messages typed, and I’m talking months. Someone asked me if someone was perhaps dead, it’s been so long, and I had a look as best I could, but don’t know. I sure hope not. The man in question is an ongoing blessing for the planet. For all I know, my elusive phone has taken a vow of silence.

Actually my best pal Gavin called me two days ago and we talked for a very long time, which was both fabulous and difficult, as the conversation was rather somber. My son Cameron calls me sometimes too.

All the psyche gongs and heart frappe-mixer stuff is apart from my lonely telephone’s sob story. Life is great and life is interesting – really, really interesting – the day greets me and has one offer after another. I keep showing up, so far, and my ping-ponged heart is just chock filled with gratitude. This magic morning I’ve got a new container of organic heavy cream for the coffee, and a spiffy brand new copy of Stephen King’s “On Writing.” So, tell me about it, Friday.