Folks,

A few words to say hullo and what not.  We're home for a short spell
from the Double Cure Fall Tour and frankly, well, we've had sweaty fun. 
We found ourselves in an odd assortment of rooms night after night
which I've come to believe is not a bad thing (guessing is good) and
we've made that different music together and learned a subtle form of
prayer.  (There was a thread that wove itself through everything:  Let
Go.)  And even now I learn to let go.  

Our heartfelt thanks to all of you who pointed to a map and said, "By gum
I'm going yes I am" and found us and brought good thoughts and ruddy
smiles, shoulder to young shoulder.  You've put fine memories in boxes
for us over there in the corner by the inside window.

I'm happy to say that the faithfully patient Rhinelanders should see a
cloud approaching, the size of a man's fist, coming in from faraway.  We
promise rain and do no rain dance.  You join the secret club and you wait
for the first secrets told to no one.  You've done your part.  Now how
about us.  I kept a journal during the first leg of the tour which is going to
serve as Northern Spy #1, and Shelly is going to type it for me this
evening faster than you can imagine.  Then I'll look at it objectively on
white paper and make sure it's not too earnest.  Maybe you'll glimpse the
inner life of the busted troubadour, cheer for the hopeful grinning
monotone at the talent show.  Thank you.

This weekend if you'd like a truly surreal evening (especially with
someone you could dream of becoming even more attached to) bring that
someone or those someones to the Carnegie Theatre, 1028 Scott
Boulevard, Covington, Kentucky, (606.655.8112) for "Songs of the
Blood."

This is Jay Bolotin's brain child, and Jay is one of the last of the
renaissance men, a real Leonardo.  He's gathered together himself, Karin
Bergquist (you know her), Michelle Red Elk (a slender, anointed
American Indian with prophetic words flying through her like angry
starlings out of a startled gathering tree), Terri Templeton (a displaced,
willowy, New York vocalist and violinist) and Linford Detweiler (you
know me.)  We're meeting down there tomorrow to rehearse and mesh
our songs and words into a Crow Black Sunday School Program and I
know for a fact that Karin and Jay will be closing out the evening with an
extended excerpt from the opera which Jay is working on.  So you'll get
to hear Karin take a foray into legit modern repertoire and she'll be going
for the high notes and clutching an old doll all the while, an old doll from
my collection, at least this is the plan, one of my favorites, with old red
hair and long cloth legs and high heels.

One of the reasons I'm happy is that I just finished an unforgettable
novel, the kind that makes you a close friend and makes you want to
trade your life in for a different one, or at least make better of the one
you've got:  'Ellen Foster' by Kaye Gibbons.  The Southern Female
Writers just keep swinging the door wider.  They sweep me off my feet
even though I'm married so I live up North here.  And the cold rain falls
today, the graying of November goes deeper into the roots of everything,
Old Saint Mary's bell tower chimes 3 o'clock and gusts me out the door.  

Peace,

Linford Detweiler