you tangle my emotions

 

Tom Petty's boots.*

Dear Radio Dodo Listener,

Ooooh!  Today's song is so good!  If you have been tuning in for a while, you will see that Tom Petty is often played here; because I love his descriptions of how we feel.  And that is that.  But there is also, the fact that my favorite Petty songs are sung by women.  "Don't Come Around Here No More," is made more, made larger by Rhiannon Giddens.  You'll hear it.  It isn't an opinion, it is a fact.  There is also, as further evidence, Lucinda Williams singing "Changed the Locks."  These versions are peerless.

*  I wonder, too, as I imagine you do, what would it be like if we put our feet in those boots?  How would we walk and where to?  I think about this with the artifacts of other people too; Judy Garland's ruby slippers, Johnny Cash's big black Manuel Cueva's suits, Linda Ronstadt's cub scout uniform, the fantasy of inhabiting those people and places.  I know I'd want to wear these things into the Seven 11, and I would want to smoke heroin, and I wouldn't take any guff wearing these duds, not even from my relatives.

belatedly

 

Dear Listener, Reader, Viewer, and Friend,

I forgot, again, this year, to note on February 10, the anniversary of our little meetings here.  It's been going on for 9 years.  Ain't it funny, how the time slips away? 

Encore. 

Another encore.

Encore again.

Missing Joy?

 

Dear Whom it May Concern,

Did someone take your joy?  Do you want it back?  A friend of mine, a woman I have great admiration for, suggested that it might be subversive to be cheerful, to be joyful, at this time.  Another artist I know, made this film about her search and subsequent reclamation of joy in times of trouble.  I think it qualifies beautifully as cheerful subversion and subverting cheerfully.

If watching the film doesn't help you find a little joy or cheer, send 50 cents to an address in Boulder, Colo., and see if they can't mail you a replacement. 

Acheronian Song of the Day

Dear Billy Joe,

Here is the song of today.  My DJ just played it for me.  In days past, I would have changed the station when this maudlin rot would come on the radio.  I guess I have gone soft.  One thing that has changed since those days is that Lucinda Williams kills this song.  Kills it.  She makes a true, operatic lament out of it, and it is great.

Try Bobby Gentry, too, for comparison.  Ms. Gentry would have sung it like Ms. Williams if she could have, I am certain.

The thing I love about this song is the way the dialogue tells the story.  Dialogue isn't the usual way a ballad is told.  I love the way that we know that Pa is a real insensitive piece of work, and that Ma is suggesting, hinting, that our storyteller ought to spend more time around that nice, young, eligible, tasty, and morally incontrovertible Brother Taylor.   But, what, exactly, do you suppose this bereft young woman and Billy Joe threw off of theTallahatchie Bridge?

Making lemonade out of coal.

Dear Glad You Asked and Been Meaning to Say,

I am not even remotely over it.  I sometimes don't think about it, but it comes out of nowhere and hits me like a ton of bricks, which I have noticed have little words and phrases stamped into them.  Things like 'well, now what?' and 'futility,' and 'wellerschmertz.'  If I ignore these bricks, more come along, which only proves their wretched little points.  Beware the bricks.

I am going to get a sofa that people can stay in my studio on- overnight.  It's not an easy decision.  Many things will have to be removed, re-located, given away, in order for the space to accommodate a making down of a pallet on the floor.  An artist pines for years to have a dedicated space- a space without a washer and dryer in it, or mice, or a dresser full of clothes, or shovels and hoes.  A place that is only for making.  I set mine up for that, and for reading, but only for reading the 'right' kind of books- theory, and picture books, dictionaries in various languages.  I made shrines to the things I cared for in it- photos of people, birds and animals;  rocks, leaves, dirt, shells, seeds, sticks, and the red powder they use in India.

Still, what use are secret shrines anyway?  Who would be the initiates that might see such sacred spaces?  There is a very nice* bakery in Los Alamos, and the bathroom has a little Joan Didion shrine in it.  And isn't that the right kind of place for a shrine?  A place that people visit?  I think putting people to bed in my shrine-filled studio could be a step in the right direction; although I remain far from certain about the right direction; sharing a space surely cannot be worsening things, can it?












*  Par exemple, they make terrific canelés AND fabulous pretzels.  Imagine mastering both of those, and consider how wonderful the croissants and bread must also be.





PS 
Make a few more pallets....  One, two, three, four, & five.