WTF Fest Blog #4

I am in the coastal town of Astoria Washington in a small smokey room with the legendary John Sinclair. For some reason I cannot stop smiling when I am with him and it makes him smile and that makes me feel like someone started an oven in my stomach and a big boiling pot of creative alphabet soup is cooking and about to bubble over. He said he was supposed to be writing when I walked in, and I said, so was I but I lacked motivation or inspiration, but that quickly dissipated. His energy is electric and contagious. I like that. So we smoked our cigarettes like high school kids smoking in the bathroom, feeling rebellious and not giving a fuck, and now all you hear is the clattering of the keys on our keyboards. What a beautiful sound. I wish they were typewriters, that would sound like a symphony. There are people cooking and baking in the kitchen. They are people making art in the basement. There are waves crashing to shore right outside the window. I should be crashing, I've been tired and jet lagged, in pain from my surgery, mentally torn apart, physically run down, but I hear all the laughter and voices and I refuse to give into the pain or anything for that matter. I hear Dave Archer singing, Amy Bugbee baking, Shyla & Shane talking in the basement while creating together. It's all so perfect. It's all so beautiful. I'm outside taking it all in, but I'm in it too. So, there's no where else I'd rather be.