The Garden

Once, visiting Kevin Welch on his ranch in Dripping Springs, Texas, he dropped a little knowledge on me. He said, "writing songs is like tending a garden. It doesn't bear fruit constantly. You gotta plant the seeds. Give it love. Be patient. And come spring, you reap the rewards."  Kevin is very wise. And this is likely very true. It's also likely very true that my garden is filled with weeds. Because I lost my trowel. Or maybe just left it out and it rusted in the rain. I'm not entirely sure. But I do know that late at night, when I've been up late drinking, I will actually walk past two perfectly functioning bathrooms just to urinate in my garden. I cannot explain this. It's a caveman thing. The soft splatter of piss and earth under starlight is like sweet music. Which brings us back to the whole garden music metaphor. I can't remember what the hell I planted in there. And I never prune the damn thing. But I have added a couple weird iron pigs I picked up at a roadside art stand out near Wimberly.  Maybe that explains why my songs come out the way they do. Or maybe not. The sun is setting. If I'm gonna properly piss in this garden tonight, I better drink more beer.

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