creative drought and depression

Oh -- it has a name. That’s what I have.

During the 60s it was Broadway and Methodist Church music and back to back European trips. I also lived on the beach in Florida near a naval station. The Hague, Netherlands, was my home and school for two of those years.

And a weakness for very expensive marine tropical fish, from the Red Sea and Indian Ocean, plus the dive trips to Jamaica, The Bahamas, and Cozumel, broke my bank.

In the 70s I lived in NYC and stayed home every Saturday night, waiting for the agent to call, hoping for a Sunday job. Remember, cell phones and email did not arrive until 1995, and then some.

In the 80s, I lived on the Caribbean, drank margaritas, smoked grass, and lived the life of a beachcomber/adventurer/tour director and amateur archeologist.

In the 90s I joined the Catholic Church, experimented with mysticism and early 20th century French intellectual organ composers, and practiced the tubular organ non-stop -- trying to be as good as Virgil Fox or Pierre Cochereau, and then stopping only when I started going blind.

A year ago, I submitted to the operations on my eyes, and they didn’t work. Still can’t watch TV or drive at night.

My 148 year old Grand Piano, recently restored, waits for me downstairs in the Old Kitchen, the only room large enough to contain it. The sound is majestic. We will rise, again, and I hope that all of you reading this will become a public voice for culture, music, and literature here on Calle 68.

If you can sing or dance -- let’s do a show ! 999 149-4742

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