Happy Birthday, Dear Patti

My husband gave me the CD of Horses for an early Christmas present. My vinyl LP had reached its 30th year in something less than minty-fresh condition and in any case it's inaccessible without a turntable. I waited until a sunny morning when I was alone and all the cats were asleep. Maybe the chiropractor's office downstairs was open. Would the patients in the waiting room look up at the ceiling in consternation if I cranked it? I took a breath, pushed > and nothing else mattered.

"Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine." Those bittersweet piano chords lay down a path to your voice, soft and sorrowing but utterly sure. These notes have haunted me through the decades, while the balls-to-the-wall wail of Gloria chased me out of silence, a hellhound on my trail.

So memory served: you kicked ass. You're kicking my ass right this moment: I'm actually writing this. To you, my sister! Because i too am an american artist, and when i can live it i lose my own guilt. You breathe that life into me. Thank you, Patti. Rock on.