We all rise as one

I've been listening to a lot of Eva Cassidly lately. I blame my friend J (Actually, J is my ex-girlfriend, but that's another, long, story). She introduced me to Eva a few weeks ago. I didn't think much of her. I never think much of the music J brings until I get around to them on my own time. Well, my own time came and now I can't stop goggling over the sheer wonder that is Eva. Eva's voice is perfection refined. It's perfection taken, tempered in perfection juices, cooled in perfection water, then blessed with holy perfection water taken from the Shekinah, herself. I cannot even begin to explain how melodous, magical, and mystifying Eva's voice sounds. Seriously, I could ply superlatives all day and not run out.

If you're looking to get started on Eva, I suggest the following songs:

What a Wonderful World
Over the Rainbow
Field of Gold (Yes, I know, it's a Sting cover. After you listen to it, though, you'll forget Sting existed).

Eva died in 1996 of Melanoma. All the good singers are dead.

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My nose runs in anticipation of Phoenix. The countdown hit eleven days. I'm not at the point where I'm counting minutes and seconds. I've too much I need to get finished before I obsessively count time. Eventually, you'll find me huddled in a fetal position somewhere in my room, muttering about seconds and the rhythms of a cessium atom gone awry. It brings to mind Ecclesiasticus 4:23 (Son, observe the time and fly from evil).

I most certainly will be flying from evil. I'm not sure I quite like central Illinois. To be fair, it does have it's fair points, but the conservative nature of it and the abject banality wears on me. I'll have to write more on this another time, when work isn't staring at me in the face. Again, time kicks me in the behind and forces me forward.

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I've been thinking of getting that line from Ecclesiaticus tattooed on my wrist. A few things have been stopping me. Actually, only one thing has been stopping me. I hesitate to break my shirt rule. The shirt rule states that all tattoos on the torso shall be covered by a white t-shirt (except for the one on my right arm which oh-so-sexily peeks out from behind the hem-line of my sleeve).

You know what? Fuck the shirt rule. I want that line on my left wrist. And, it can be covered by a watch if necessary.

Funny. I can't stand wearing watches, but I'm willing to wear one to cover a tattoo.