The Great Gig In The Sky

I'm looking for that great gig. You know the one. The one that makes you want to break out into song, and croon from the guts, "Ooh-aah, baby, baby - yeah, yeah, yeah" - like in the manner of the hysterical-sounding singer Clare Torry in that strange, haunting track, that bears the same title as this here blog. I can temporarily steal that great set of words from Pink Floyd's unparalleled album "The Dark Side of the Moon" to drive my own narrative - of looking and finding my "perfect" permanent job. I can change around the original intent of the subject of the famous music to fit my needs. I'm selfish when it comes to getting across my singular message. You've heard it before. And now you'll hear it again. My gig is here and it's there. It's busy making itself known to me in fits and starts. I'm starting to get a feel for its shape; its previously ghostly image is becoming more and more apparent, on human terms. And while sometimes it feels like the great gig is still sky-bound, its delicious tangibility is within lip-smacking proximity. This professional engagement, this gig, as pithy as that sounds, for whatever reason has been whirling around and around my head for the last two years; like some naughty God-forsaken butterfly. And here I am, the goof, with the faulty net. I've been close, but no cigar. But it's high-time to sing out, to proclaim, to claim like a pro what I've been searching, and now, what I'm finding. I'm in accordance with Ms. Torry, the great gig only remains in the sky, because its earthly existence is heavenly, and finally within my grasp.