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this “young” man, his posture centered around a thick cylindrical neck, which he thrusts forward like a dog would, offering the jugular to one he trusts, is a soul after all, seeing things his, or it’s way (as it is possible that the core has no duplicities) and you can tell by the glint of his eye that he is onto something BIG. that is, he KNOWS it, he FEELS it, it is his THING. bless him in all his savvy coolness. Max Wolf.

S.B.T. 426

cowboy soul

the lasso is His will, the bronco is yours
if the two come together you have a fine horse

     

tom johnson's pigs

S.B.T. 425

Elliott Smith - 
I don't think I'm ever gonna figure it out 


   

S.B.T. 424

character study

he knows something. he went after the objective, completed the tests, got the papers and procured the credentials. then he taught in a handful of community colleges, all the while an outsider, someone who didn’t belong in that arena, by all ordinary accounts he should have been in a liberal left wing east coast high brow university. he was always challenging something, authority mainly, in all it’s endless forms conjured by thinkers over millennia, the field literally littered with ponderable points. it usually took less than a week each semester before he started getting the calls from the main office to appear before the board of directors, to answer charges on one or another kind of inappropriate speech action or appearance. he went willingly, stood before them unabashed, passionately arguing and presenting a line of logic they could not refute, and would walk away precariously victorious, until the next time.

so after a number of years of meaningfully toppling small town mentalities and upsetting status quo, he took a break - he put the doctoral degree in his back pocket, and spent a few seasons hiking the mountain trails with his trusty companions, a cockney-voiced jack russell named Obie, and Lily, the sweet young flower of his love.

who was coughing, and didn’t look right but who was awestruck just the same not having imagined the purple mountain majesties being so real, and inspired out of a long spell of inertia, started writing sci-fi poetry, and just having so much shit to attend to, kept busy. at times his vantage point was towering over her head but her small face looking up, asking him a wide-eyed question, he simply could not resist.

i hadn’t considered the relative depth of conviction each soul possesses when it comes to making life’s tricky decisions. those made on the spot when you don’t own any wisdom or have the benefit of any advance notice. a toss of the dice really made with outlandish faith and innocent ignorance. i give you this: that it is written. characters in a book no one owns up to authoring so it could be that life on earth is actually a pleiadian puppet show

in a velvet-curtained box theatre made of laminated stardust.

degrees do not make experts but they do make a point 

S.B.T. 423

here is what i do - think of things while doing other things. 

it is astonishing the things i think sometimes. 

like i am not really thinking but think i am thinking.

since i think so, so i know my thought.

at least i think i know

and since i think so, so it is.

or seems to be

maybe it isn’t so at all, 

maybe it is only

another thing i th.ought

‘k so

black drop pixel on screen

round dot scribery

for a moment - pause - exhale

S.B.T. 422

let me get right to the nitty gritty point.

here we have what would be
the finest of statesmen vying for the finest of leadership roles.

aside from the well-delivered families, cohorts, friends of the runners - are there any americans out there who actually feel any vitality in the election process and about the candidates?  it's like a notch, on the bed post. it's not about businessatizing america into the black, if it were, I'd want to elect Bill Gates. it's not about ground-breaking equality of gender representation. if that were the case, I'd want to elect Gloria or Oprah.

every election, the choices seem narrower and narrower. i thought it was bad last time, but this is over the top.

not that these are not fine individuals, experts in their lines of work. just that the field is too narrow, and to me, it looks like they do it on a dare. a victory of any sort is thrilling, that’s all. and then we can muse about helping people, international affairs, broad power, and the saddest factions crying for satisfactions. it’s almost embarrassing to realize that we are immediately going from one first kind of president to another first kind of president. whomever becomes president, will be a first kind again. first ever president with no political background, or first president of female gender.

whatever the outcome,  it will be a first. it looks like we are in the birth pangs of a disparate identity, a new “brand”.

“america, the medium way” 

observe the fluid rush of media and suggestion coming through the tube and airwaves and the images of these people speaking and lining up for the camera, and the commentaries and pictures and opinions following going on and on and on……..

but….....

i can’t get rid of this feeling that we are ridiculous. and then, that being ridiculous is one of the freedoms we do have. i feel grateful for that and may the best candidate win. but i don’t think i will bother to vote this time because it just is too impossible of a choice to make. so shoot me, that’s how it is.

*********

S.B.T. 421

Stephen Foster was a composer whose songs I learned to play and sing as a child, and would never turn down a chance to hear. "Beautiful Dreamer" is featured in many different versions available online, and truly i like Roy Orbison’s version the most. Secondly, Rachel Fannan because well just because. And don't leave Marty Robbins out.
      Stephen Collins Foster (July 4, 1826 – January 13, 1864), was an American composer who wrote unforgettable tunes, songs you could feel swell in your mind, in your heart, burst through the veils of inner vision and the landscape of your soul - songs that drifted on a breeze, songs with ghost fingers, music like silk ribbons, like a rainbow twirling around your heart, showers of rain or daisies.
      SONGS THAT MAKE YOU STOP to listen. Songs you can not forget, songs so simple, elegant and lovely, they are sung on and on for hundreds of years. He lived a short thirty-seven years, but I would say his contribution is enormous.
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lulld by the moonlight have all passed away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody,
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie,
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
Een as the morn on the streamlet and sea,
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!