Late Winter has me snowed under into some kind of creative hibernation. My studio keeps winking at me, but I continually deny its charms, returning instead to the arms of Beyonce, whose single “Irreplaceable” I’ve had in a freakishly relentless loop that is broken only to watch forensic-type TV shows or read history books and science magazines. When I pick up the lap steel, only really bizarre (and loud) stuff pours forth for a few minutes, then I grow sleepy like a brown bear. Tomorrow may be different. That said, many people believe that a great deal of creative processing occurs unconsciously, like seeds germinating underground. I’ll buy that.

(Sent from my mobile phone.)