Listening to Miles Davis live at the Fillmore East. Fabulous recordings made in June 1970.  I had just finished my junior year of high school  that month.  The war in Vietnam was going  full blast and the shootings at Kent State had happened the month before.  I was living 12 miles to the north of Kent at the time.

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Just getting over a virus that had me in its clutches for 4 days.  Energy levels slowly coming back.

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Been working hard on Appearances.

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Poppies just started blooming in the front yard.

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A glass of sauvignon blanc.

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I should have gotten a stitch or two for that cut index finger tip.  It's been slow to close and is tender when I type, but I've gotten to the point where I don't have to wear a bandage.  It does creep me out to look at it though.

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Miles' phrasing so sensitive, so nuanced.

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On the guitar I practice scales, rhythms and chords.  A few repetitive things.  Usually every day.  Usually at least 2 hours a day.  Progress is slow.  I'm 60, not 16.  But every once in awhile I surprise myself.  The beauty of the minor blues scale will never be exhausted for me.

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It's humid in advance of the promised storms.

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