We are not let into the garden with an easy pass; struggle seems to be the prerequisite for admittance,.I see my friend, Uncle Warren Goff in battle most times with nefarious demons, straining in poetry and mishaps to transmit what ever revelations are streaming into his soul from all directions of the Far-gone-es-sphere. Sometimes, laid bare as a bone comes a poem stretched out on the page so descriptive and heart wrenching that you wonder how this man is coping with life on life's terms; then, other times, he disappears into the miasma of blistering complications for what seems infinite highways of time. Are all of us not " straining " like Warren to make sense of it all, straining for some small clue that will reveal what the hell is going on here..I am clueless until I have a guitar in my hand. For some reason, raking my fingers over the strings of a guitar unleashes spurts of clarity that unveils little beautiful terrible secrets of uncompromising starkness that make me catch my breath and purse my mouth into a shape of wonderment and perplexity, thus, for my personal life's expedition, the guitar is a conduit, my Harry Potter wand to visions and revelations; without the guitar, I am as dumb as a mud fence, straining to understand the simplest of dereliction's. The moment I pick up a guitar I've just climbed up on the back of the HYDROGEN BAMBOONI FLYING RHINO HORSE holding on for dear life..I am straining just like you pilgrims most every minute of waking and sleeping to get a grasp on this whacked out journey. I believe it's our obligation to one another to transmit anything and everything we learn along the way to help make the trip easier for all of us..This day my small offering is a song.