Not a bad week, by any stretch of the imagination, but rather a long, hard-worked week.
And so here I sit on the couch, home alone except for Ted the Labradoodle perched on the back of the couch, as if he were a cat for crissakes. I am listening to “The Promise,” the new/old Bruce Springsteen release, a gift from the most patient husband in the world, who rides the waves of my ups and downs like a champion surfer.
Music cranked up loud; sun shining through windows; cup of coffee steaming. Ah, this is a reward for which it’s worth working hard.
I’ve got a list of things to write about, a list that goes on and on, jammed with pieces on subjects both volatile and benign.
But I can’t write anything on my list, not right now.
Bruce is singing “Fire.”
I can do little more than quickly move my fingers over the keyboard with the joy I feel listening to this amazing recording. It’s hard to explain, but listening to this I feel young and fresh and in love all over again, all goose-bumped and giddy.
So, excuse me.
Screw the world for a bit. Screw working and deadlines and websites and writing wondrous prose.
The Boss has me under his spell, and he’s singing just for me.