I remember watching a John Lennon documentary once as a teenager. There was film of some young transients who had just sort of camped out outside of John and Yoko's house.
The Lennonos decided to invite the young men inside for something to eat.
Around the table one of them told John that he'd always felt a certain song John had written, was written for him. And John politely said, "Not really," adding that if anything, he might write a song for Yoko, or one based on his own personal experience... but it was impossible that he had written one for a young man he had never met.
The young man looked somewhat crushed as he rectified his cognitive dissonance. You could tell he really believed he had tapped into some kind of spiritualized rock n' roll mojo.
I don't think we are karmically connected by any measure, but Stephen Fry has just written a blog post which sums up my life since Summer Solstice almost perfectly:
August is almost over, and August is always like this -- the monsters (in my case, deadlines, ungraceful beasts of hard tedious work) come home to roost. And despite my attempts to go find inane things to do to distract myself, the work must be done. And you know how monsters are. They always attract friends.
I've been quiet on here but I've got lots of material about Lammas in my notes.
More after Labor day. LABOR. Ugh.
For your viewing enjoyment, here is the last third of the episode of Blackadder that I always think of when I get into these situations (which is often) -- in which E. Blackadder must re-create the entire first dictionary of the English language, on pain of death, by morning: