Hair of the Wood

 

Another project rises from the battered bed of the old Black and Decker Workmate. Red wine coloured wood dye has been applied. Not drunk either. Some sanding, some varnish but the end is not in sight. More sanding, dye and even more varnish are required. Then we glue and screw.

It's the hair of the wood. It just keeps rising up like a group of down trodden activists or some hidden urban army, hell bent on usurping the quiet hand of my control. But they'll never win. The spheres are alive. The sandpaper works. The long cat watch has begun. Hairs on the guitar wood begone! 

Just keep plugging away because the man who made time made a lot of it and what else are we really supposed to do other than fritter it all away endlesssly on mildly amusing but pointless projects? 

Also: Here's a short poem Captain Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) wrote for guitarist Winged Eel Fingerling (Elliot Ingber). They're dead now.

No B.O. for this boy

it’s like a winged eel fingerling

crawling thru lime jello

it’s like chrome black eyebrow

rolled out real long

a paper brow magnifying glass

fried brown, edge scorched, yoked

like a squeak from a speaker

behind forehead of the time,

licorice schtick open tube of

valuable JuJuBees.