2200 Days

A dear friend sent me a text last night. She asked me to check out a post on Nextdoor. I clicked it, and immediately recognized the photo. It was one I had seen several times before — a bearded man seated before a mixing board. I handed my phone to Arne, and asked him, “Do you recognize this person?” He took a look, and said, “That's an old Trident…” and proceeded to rattle off the model number, TSM something or other. I’ll ask him again later.

Being an artist, singer, a writer, I deal in communicating emotion, on singing on pitch, on finding the lyrics, written by me or someone else, to tell a story.

I don’t always have the opportunity to sing with a band, and I’m not yet comfortable making videos. I cringe when I see myself. Fairly certain that comes from being teased when I was a kid. I hate that our society is so obsessed with appearances. Even more true with entertainment. But music? That goes straight to your soul.

Anyway, I digress.

Some things take longer to recover from than others. Sometimes we never recover from them, we just keep getting through one event after another.

We do our best to put the pain aside, but the reminders pop up from time to time, and are like thorns. And as hard as you try to remove yourself from a place or time, some places become such a part of you, or you become such a part of a place, that some folks will always associate you with it.

There is so much misinformation floating around, errors published and repeated, it might be time to tell a few stories about my time spent at The Plant.

Then again, I would rather spend my time making art and music, whether that be my own or someone else's.

What is important is that whatever we do, we do it with love.

-- Mari Tamburo