One measure of 4/4 followed by one of 3/4.
The beat missing creates a loping anticipation.
It’s oddly natural and easy to feel.
Maybe it comes from our ancient past.
When we ran through the fields to keep the beat.
Jogging with a cardiac rhythm.
Hearing the drums beating
in the wind of our breath.
Mickey’s at it again, dreaming about music and meter.
It’s what brings him joy.
And joy’s been a bit sparse as of late.
She stutters sometimes, with the syncopation.
Hums and purrs when she’s in the pocket.
Speaks Latin, mixolydian, dorian, and gypsy.
And she’s not afraid to say what’s on her mind.
Don’t get me wrong, she can be tender.
But tears are for violins and cellos.
Not this rough and tumble girl from round the way.
There’s more sides to Mickey than tragedy. The boy can flat out throw down.
That’s his guitar.
Stay tuned, they’re going to mix it up.
The spirits had spoken to both competing sisters.
The instructions were clear.
Prepare for the end of days.
Gather firewood and canned food.
Leave Mickey in Brooklyn.
Tell him you’ve had enough, that you are taking the children to a shelter.
Then take a Greyhound to Orlando.
This comes directly from “Spirit”, not from us.
We meet Mickey. And things immediately get interesting.
Maria, the mother of his kids, is close to her family.
And, as you can see, they got caught up in that whole year 2000 end of the world nonsense.