I met a fifty-six year old man last night named Pat while sitting outside Picasso's working out recording logistics. We sat on the edge of the store next door and talked for four and a half hours.
Four and a half hours.
Sometimes I forget the feeling of honesty and shamelessness that comes with openness toward strangers. Then some stranger comes up and asks you want you're working on. You say songs. Then you compare calluses. Etcetera.
The night is a blur, but I remember philosophical conversations, observing drunk people, talk of where his life as a musician has taken him, bouncing positive energy back and forth [and acknowledging the act of doing so], his ex-wife, mushroms in a cave, the potential of Mohammad and Jesus being one and the same, a "protective energy shield" he put around me, and us simultaneously saying, "That's not spirituality."
Some things.
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