I spent this week delving further into Weird Al’s discography on my Spotify playlist. Now that the week is done for me, I’m starting to get ready for my drive out to St. Louis for Muse on Sunday night. I keep in touch with the owner of my first foster bunny, Nimbus (he has since been re-named Clouse), who lives in Kansas City, so I’m planning to stop on the way to visit. I’m not sure if bunnies remember people the way dogs or cats do, but I’m still excited to see him. Here’s the most recent photo I was sent of little Nimbus enjoying his new hidey house:
Tomorrow I drop Sonny off with a friend I met through the rabbit rescue from which I ultimately adopted him. It’s about 6 hours in total to St. Louis, so I’m also considering what I want to listen to during my travels. I have a couple of audiobooks in mind, along with potential for some Spotify content and music from my own music library. The sky’s the limit when it’s just you and the open road!
Since I don’t have a ton to report on tonight, I thought I would finish tonight’s entry by sharing a piece of a creative nonfiction essay I wrote back in college about my first Marillion concert. I plan to share the full essay at some point, but for now, here’s a snippet:
Finally, the lights went down, both in the room and on the stage. We were in pitch black and complete silence for a little bit, until a soundscape started and filled the room.It was in G minor, a favorite key of mine. The dramatic, intriguing nature of it immediately grabbed the attention of both my dad and myself. To me, it sounded like thestart of a movie, a dark, drama film to be exact. I could picture it at that moment: a pitch black screen that morphed into the navy blue Warner Brothers logo, like the start of oneof my favorite movies. The Warner Brothers logo faded and was followed by the logosfor the other companies that helped make this film a reality. The logos faded, and I wasbrought back to the stage, and the first four members of the band emerged from the darkness. The audience erupted with excitement as the four men took their places on the stage. I did not know any of them except for Steve Rothery, the guitarist. I couldn’t get a good look at the drummer since he was buried behind a wall of drums, but everyone else I could see just fine. Except for one. I knew there was a fifth member of this band but I didn’t see him. Finally, he came out of the shadows. I knew that this was Steve Hogarth, called “H” by the band and by fans. I guessed it was to distinguish him from Steve Rothery. H blushed at the audience and took his place in the center of the stage, carrying an acoustic-electric guitar, possibly a Martin brand, and the first melodies of the evening left him:
“The world’s gone mad/And I’ve lost touch/I shouldn’t admit it/But I have”
Wait, what was that? What a dark way to start a show, I thought. My dad and I looked at each other. We were a bit taken aback by this, but at the same time, we couldn’t help but be instantly intrigued.
The Girl in the Scarf 
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