Presently pictures of past

A years gone by. Bye-bye, bygones. A good time to reflect on twelve lunar cycles, runnin' around the sun. Hard to focus, fuzzy ideas, mental diarrea. Must've been the eclipse or a meteor shower, I feel the power in this final hour. Or maybe the cosmic events within. This year's song began on such a high note, hit parade, number one without no bullets. So inspired, all things are possible when good will outweighs bad deeds. To be sure, the skies were darkening with clouds of uncertainty, but it was going to be alright. We'd all weathered storms before. The band played on, even as bad deals were going down. I was caught in a tidal wave of good tidings, never thought that the shoreline would be so fraught with who knows what.

The muse of blues was once again flowing from my fingertips. I went down to the crossroads and was lifted off my knees into a breeze of free-flowing musicality that ran through me like the spirit of an old friend long gone. Felt like a deep freeze had unfroze with a thaw that inspired awe. Memories of days wrapped in reverie of joyful noise, my fingers flitted across and flirted with those strings. Good vibrations indeed.

It was then that I felt the shift, turned inward, re-direction, tugging at my heartstrings. Damn you, Philo Farnsworth! Talk about the genie and the bottle. More like the GE and the throttle. Turn it off, screamed Howard Beale, he was the real deal, all the rest were mad, not he. That tube is as addictive as any substance, unsubstantial, a box of bad moody blood, flowing out into my living room, up to my knees,now it's at my throat, too late, like the blob it's got me in it's gob.

I ain't no saint, fed on the boob as surely as mother's milk, I sat transfixed, eyes wide,Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob, The Merry Mailman. Who were these people, smiling at me like I was their long-lost loved one, showing me pictures of fantastical places and smiling faces? Rare Earth got it right,too late to stop now. I believe I was falling in love with phantoms, but they liked me, they really liked me.The pitch was caught and the runner was out. As this embryo evolved from boy to man, from band to band, brother in hand, the waters were choppy but we learned to navigate the negative undertow. Now, washed up on the sands of time, the weight of years and tears and slings and arrows of outrageous fortune bending my back and bowing my head, where was the refuge, the salvation for a soul unstrung from the body and the bridge to a tuneless tomb of timidity and terror that buries me in that lone prairie without my saddle pal oh,wherefore Art though Wes? Led through uncharted territory without any ideas as my maps. We'll meet on Jagged Edges, soon. A reunion, a community of souls, but are we still united? State your case for the human race, we're in it to win it, , somethings won but somethings lost. At such a cost. My loss is your gain. Mark Twain turnin' in his tomb, weary of the irony, seems like an eternity.

twelve months at a time.

In Praise of Silly

We are programmed at birth to be silly. Our parents tolerate it until such time as we are deemed "big" boys and girls. Growing up is synonymous with sillying down. Suddenly we're too old for this type of behavior, but it's not something that can be switched off swiftly. It takes varying amounts of time, but most of us eventually toe the line, cast off our childish thoughts and actions and turn our attention to more serious matters.

Silly isn't something we naturally outgrow. We must be taught to "tone it down". And it would negatively impact our studies and professions. So we tuck away our puckishness until we have our own offspring to entertain. It gives us joy and pleasure to make our children laugh by indulging in exactly the same type of shenanigans we were taught to shed like a soiled diaper. And as our children grow it's our turn to rain on their parades.

But what if that silliness is, in fact, a vital aspect of our psycho-somatic selves, a protection mechanism against the deadly serious aspects of life? A defense against the ever-growing cynicism of the modern age. In the global community (an oxymoron if ever there was one), we are constantly exposed to the twenty-four hour news cycle. Some poor soul meets an untimely end in a remote corner of the world and they are offered up as info-tainment, a monotonous drumbeat of doom and destruction, often watched from the comfort of a cozy home.

The helplessness is palpable. Empathy and worry are the only ways to express our solidarity with the afflicted. Watch the evening news and a sleepless night is assured. Certainly it's no stretch to hypothesize that the ensuing distress impacts our health. Sedation is often sought by prescription, over the counter and under the table.

There is another way. Get in touch with your silly self. Do something stupid, laugh at something inane, tease, joke, cajole, poke and prod. Speak gibberish, the official language of the silly. Wake up the sleeping infant. Alka Seltzer for the soul. Endorphins flow, the mood elevates and somehow we reconnect with that blissful state which lies dormant, not dead. You can do it in private or with a trusted confidant. Public silliness could easily be misinterpreted, so always indulge in a protected environment. And it's legal!

Start slow and work your way up. Silliness has to be reacquired in stages.

Often I've been accused by those I love and trust as being too silly. Guilty as charged.

It's a sentence I'm happy to serve.