[Thoughts upon listening to the CD O Brother, Where Art Thou.]
I am a man of inconstant bowels
My own true lover I half expect to see again
Will we be lovers or just imaginary friends?
I'd be happy to meet her on the Gold Coast shore;
Somewhere between Boca Raton and Bahia Honda.
Meanwhile, keep on the reflective side of life y'all;
The clouds and storm will some day disappear as will everything else.
Fair is as likely as foul.
The jungle fires burn perpetually;
Around a lone but centrally located cigarette tree;
Blooming forever between the bent knees of eternity.
Down here on the ground some ask "Where did they hide the Turk-jerk who invented work?"
Others ask "Where are they hiding the pay?"
Skip James may have epitomised the situation:
"People are driftin' from door to door, can't find heaven wherever they go."
Had he suffered as much as he claimed?
You could hear the answer in his voice.
I mean forget about sunshine, don't even take my gloom away.
A little consciousness seems infinitely better than none at all.
Which brings us to the metaphysical Celestial Shore!
That's where they want to play their banjos.
Bela Fleck is way ahead of most of us in this respect.
But he could not have done it without Earl Scruggs.
Really, let the folks who wish to fly away, fly away.
I never wanted to keep 'em down on the farm anyway.
How are ya gonna? Run 'em over with a tractor?
Bill Monroe's music is among the saddest.
When I was a kid I could not listen to Monroe and his band without feeling empty and depressed.
You gotta meet There, lie There, stand There, sit There, walk There, and you gotta do it by yourself
And if you don't believe it, the detuned, dead-stringed slide guitar is There to drive the message home.
Indian War Hoop has me levering my left foot to the off beat.
And I'm less than half way thought the CD.
If this is Religion, I can handle it.