Come, They Told Him

He spends a significant part of his morning banging on his various drums, trying hard to remember that there’s more to be done that particular morning than merely drum- banging and dreaming of a worry-free world (even though the drumbeats beckon him into an even deeper state of stupor and somnambulation). He remembers (even though he’s home alone) that he does not live alone and that (even though no specifically stated demands have been placed upon him) some degree of responsible contribution to communal bliss is always welcomed and always appropriate.

He sits briefly at the computer and researches various solutions to the incipient fruit fly infestation currently budding in the kitchen pantry and, finding that he does not possess any of the potentially successful remedy components, he resigns to reality, dresses, and prepares to visit the appropriate vendors down in the village.

Instead, even before he reaches the end of his driveway—long before he reaches the village proper—he decides that his initial visit to the fairly-newly-opened café at the fairly-newly-opened theater and arts center in the not-too-distant neighboring town is long overdue and that (even though fruit flies are truly annoying) even somnambulistic drummer boys need a little artistic lunch once in a while.

He manages a single (even if somewhat long-winded) journal entry before finishing an outstandingly delicious lunch followed by a magnificent apple cheesecake dessert. He makes a couple of quick stops in the village upon his return, chats with the shopkeepers about cheesecake and fruit flies and upon his return home (even though he has the best of intentions otherwise) he places his parcels on the kitchen counter, ambles into his studio, and drums.

 

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