Falling Trees And Singing The Blues

You know what I love? Thinking – there are flicks of truth shooting out – not yet indivisible core truths coming forth. New thoughts continuously arise to keep alive the hope of coming upon a perfect truth. I like little kids, because what you see at five most often is not what you might imagine them to be at eleven. So that’s where originality resides. Then there is Keith Richards. Over the past year, I’ve listened to it all from him. Why? I trust his instincts. He reverences the blues, and the primitive soul. I see the hot nights come alive, I smell the booze pouring out, the moans of mercy are heard; Can’t you hear the whip lash, the cries, and the suffering of tortured souls singing out as they ran through the muddy waters that gave birth to the Mississippi Blues. Listen with your heart, and the faint core of truth is hauntingly near. Have you ever been to a space that feels primitive? It’s scary. I have. I feel very uncomfortable when I have. Why? Like I said, it’s primitive, like the beginning of life. I’ve felt that strange feeling in my front yard on hot Sunday summer afternoons in Utah, when the streets are empty, it’s quite, and the wind blows through the tall, tall trees. I never heard that foreign sound growing up in Southern California. Where I lived there were no tall trees, just sun bleached tract homes built after WW2. The closest thing I experienced to blues and tall trees were the parties my mother threw for people involved In that horrible war. The liquor felled many a man – it was like falling trees to my five year old mind. The wounded warriors’ crying hinted of the blues. All this saddles the grey, ghostly horse of truth. I climb up into the saddle only to find no horse below. My feet never leaving the ground. There is so much thinking to do. Someday I am sure it will arrive at a core truth or two. Until that day, thinking is what I like to do.