Sandor Kraut

I hate socks. The first thing I do when I get home from a long day on my feet is plop down and promptly remove my shoes and socks. That's the sign of relaxation for me. Feet are overused and under appreciated. The minute the cool night air hits them and starts to evaporate the sweat, that's when the good part of the day starts.
Crack a beer. Remove socks. Sit down. And take a deep breath.
So that's the point in my night now. The socks are off. Tonight I enjoy a birthday beer, a nice rye IPA while the rain pours off the now gutter less roof in buckets. I enjoy my newly super cleaned tiny living quarters. The broom still looms close to the couch as a warning to the dust bunnies as I find myself cleaning more frequently and thoroughly as my domesile shrank.  (Perhaps I don't want that huge house in the hills?)

I have a 6am departure time for Asheville tomorrow morning.  It's well past midnight and the coffee from a long night of prepping for "vacation" along with a new release party had me running like a mad woman.
But now the socks are off.

I can't wait to go visit my uncle in the mountains and see a new city. The anticipation of even hearng the cadence of Sandor Katz is invigorating , as though the books I have clung to are now getting voices of their own.
 I find a very primal lust for learning at the core of myself. I can even watch some master at something I am not interested in, but in mastering an art, I become in awe and want to pry apart and examine what makes someone so and all the delicate intricacies of it.
I have a day of riding ahead of me tomorrow. And I should get some sleep. But as I stretch my toes and ponder articulation, I can't close my eyes. There's too much excitement in the air.