The Picasso of Rhythm...

It's not just raining today, it's pouring and that's different.
It woke me, that pouring. Alerted me, Something's up. In a bad way. 
And it was true. Too.
Too True.

When you're little, young, you've got all channels open without static and noise. You're clear. 
Completely Clear. 
The antennas of lack of age keep you, them, spinning in perfect reception. To anything. 
Any anything. Every-Thing. 
And then, if lucky -maybe Blessed, or even cursed- you find It. ...or does It find You?...

because everything made sense before I heard It, and somehow, yet fucking incredibly Some How, It made more than perfect sense after It found /Me/ found It. 
And then, that day, I knew I had Tribe.
Tribe being, You are not wrong, It can be done a different way and you are not alien for hearing It this different way. 
And finding Tribe is a Big Day when you are little, young, eggshell fragile, different -but somehow not, and trying to make sense of the It in Art in the It of You. 

Thank You for It,
Thank You for Sound,
Thank You for Music because the Music Thanks You,
Thank You, Paul Motian.