Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of Purple Rain. I had the purple 45 growing up and listened to it until it was all scratchy. And then I listened to it some more.
I was in elementary school when it came out, so it’s likely I didn’t get it right away, but who remembers? I’m pretty sure I still have the saucer-sized vinyl disc and a plastic yellow 45 adapter stuck in the center of it.
It’s somewhere buried in the stacks of albums, cassettes and 8-tracks in the basement. But I’ve not been home to check them lately.
To the house, is probably more accurate than home. As I wrote long ago, home is where the heart feels welcome. My heart and home are with Blue. I’m in the process of moving again.
I have an essay brewing about getting back in the swing of things after a year of transition. And now more transition is on tap. I have a couple of essays brewing, actually.
Speaking of writing, I’m thinking about taking a creative writing class. I’d like some sort of structure and accountability. Writing groups have been suggested to me more than once, so I do plan to look into those as well…
Years ago I claimed I had nothing to say. Not that what I had to say was valueless – I claimed to lack for ideas. I have the ideas. Just gotta to spend more time putting them on paper.
I’m a prolific thinker, but writers write.