I can imagine that singing the Sacred Harp would be quite thrilling....not for the words, per se, but more for the epic nature of the sound. Most Sacred Harp songs are about the extremes of joy or anguish. This is the kind of music you imagine was sung in remote areas of the country hundreds of years ago. It's one of those branches of "Soul Music" - it takes on the "religious" tone and expresses matters of the soul. However, I can't completely buy into it. It's aesthetically pleasing and moving, but it isn't anything truly meaningful. It's not some primordial method of meditation or purgation. It is what it is: a folk art.

Awake, My Soul: The Story of The Sacred Harp

6:45am

I turned around
and saw the sky
how it lay sleeping
how I saw the
gray ages
pummeling
deep
until a needle fell
and a squirrel
hid away
and the motor
of time brought
the sky to its feet
how it moved upon me
and made the air
cold and merciful

the orange--
it revealed
--the world
lifted its petticoat
and it danced
a morning
so blue.

humbled

in the enormity of
great evil
of great squalor
and great pain
one can witness the
enormity of God
for God is not only the
creator of the things
which make us happy
and peaceable
but he creates the things
that divide us apart,
wreck our lives,
and spoil our efforts
He is the author of good and evil
He is the author of our deaths
He is the author of all things
and for that
He is greater than any god preached on the earth.

tonight

It is not "me"
for I am nothing
and
to the outside world
this is insanity
but were you to walk
in my shoes
you would feel the same
that the only thing worth
anything
is the death
of "self"
the tide rushing back
into the many waters
to reveal
the Christ
the One and Only
the only thing
that has ever been
and ever will be
and that my darkness
has been a creation of God's
so that Christ would
reign in Light
for me to see
that "I" is insanity
that this is all about Christ
and slowly yet surely
I am becoming The Christ.

getting there

the old is falling away
like burnt heather
a burst
a crackle
of purple flame
it shows the faces
in the scent
the cedar
and the thyme
and the wool
relics falling
down the water slope
into a sound of rushing waters
that sustains itself for all time
it shows the faces
in the bright sun
in the water's white.

goodbye.

gravy

wish i could pack
all my things
and hit the road
by 6am
to reconfigure
bounce out of
the loop

caught the spirit

Old Time Music is bizarre in that from the outside looking in, all you see are a bunch of musicians playing some really old music (like 1700s, 1800s, etc.) But the reality is actually very different. In the act of playing these tunes, one is not playing in the past, there is a presentness to the music. It is alive NOW. Who cares if it was alive then. It is palpable music in that ordinary people play it and play it together....still. There is something profound in the fact that those old fiddle and banjo tunes have survived for so long - that people have had the interest and the zeal in succeeding generations to learn the tunes, too. Old time music, for those who have caught it, is a very accessible music for expression. Those old fiddle tunes begin to gain clarity - their feeling understood....whereas before it was just some bowing and some notes. Now you can feel the story of the tune even if there's no words at all. There is a spirit attained. Everyone grasps the spirit differently. And yet they gather together in large flocks to share the same. I once heard somebody describe a circle of old time musicians as in "communion" - their heads bowed, eyes closed, etc. Sometimes the playing is raucous and full of jubilation. After a while, one forgets what their fingers are doing and...... I think I have no choice now but to accept that there is something supremely special about it all.

Bizarre that music evolves, and yet old time is evolving at such a slower rate over time, though it evolved into OTHER forms of music that followed it: blues, "country", etc. Perhaps it is evolving in its own circle so slowly because of its distinction. There actually is an element of preservation to the music. But that preservation is not stuffy nor scholarly. It is a preservation based out of admiration and respect for those who came before us and loved the tunes the way we do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=03lusDmD_v4

wham

i once had such romantic visions of what life should be. Life should be learning how to make a fiddle from an old Firefox Series book. Life should be a wife and kids. Life should be the quiet of Springy piedmonts and dilapidated barns. Life should be big tables and big meals. Life should be dancing and more dancing.

I was reading the last chapter of the cookbook "Raw Food Gourmet" - sort of my last contemplation on the matter. The name of the chapter is "Raw Spirituality".....and by the end of the first paragraph I realized this woman is totally deceived. In essence, her brand of raw fooding (to acheive less toxic distraction to get closer to God) is a religion unto itself. The Raw Food religion. Where staying raw is the tribulation. Where one is purified by what goes into their mouths. Then I realized this is not so uncommon. In fact, man was designed to do these sorts of things - to seek for Truth in the wrong places. To think something is truth when it is a lie.

All I could feel after reading this woman's heartfelt and genuine expression of how raw food is a responsible spiritual decision was great sadness.

But then again, those Springy piedmonts and those bright-eyed frolics only coerce sadness, too nowadays. Not the earlier excitement, deep-seated contentment. Not the previous feelings of being vivified.

King Solomon says so many times that it is all meaningless. And I can't help but agree. The more I see how blind I am, the more I see how ALL OF THIS has nothing to do with this. All of this has everything to do with the things of the Spirit. All of my physical dependencies, my exterior idols, my strong attachments to the "things of this world" are beginning to rise to the surface. This sadness I feel is, honestly, the realization that I have to let go of the world and the things of it. Because in my deepest of hearts I know that to attach to the temporal is futile and meaningless.....but to strive for the things of the Spirit - THAT is what lasts. Anything else is death.

I will not find nirvana in etc. etc. etc.

Nirvana can't be what I seek.

Because Nirvana is the extinguishing of the flame because the day has come.

(right?)

Life is what I seek - a Truth which extends beyond emotion or aesthetics. I seek a Truth which I feel is only in Christ. that is what I have known in the Word of God. A Truth that latches onto me. Not the fleeting joy of some Berwald Quartet in a sunlit parlor. Not in the recognition in my best friend's face or their familiar voice. Not in my readiness to do something.

I slept

Someone once told me that God works when we are sleeping
that dreams are God's way of dealing out our fates
Job, Daniel, Solomon, etc.
I realized today that I haven't slept in a very long time
And by "very long time" I mean years upon years.
I grew so tired that I deemed this new sorry state to be normal
or just what it feels like to get older and more jaded
But now I know that I am just tired.

Three years ago I was given a dream
wherein a demon was sent to roam about me
a la Job
a dream that would torment me for a long time
and would fulfill these words of Scripture:

"I applied my heart to inquiring and exploring by wisdom concerning all that is done under the heavens:it is an experience of evil Elohim has given to the sons of humanity to humble them by it." Ecclesiastes 1:13

"Yahweh said to Satan, From where are you coming? Then Satan answered Yahweh and said, From going to and fro in the earth and from walking about in it." Job 1:17

Someday I will know and appreciate "only in looking back"
the evil experience God has given me
and to someday learn how to rejoice in the Truth that
God really does work ALL things according to His own will.
To know that God gives us these tormenting experiences out of love.

I have wondered these three years when God would release me
from this prison
and, perhaps, there are still more years to come....
I don't know....
but today
the rain's been pouring
for the first time in a long time
and I felt that I could maybe
begin to move on
and walk away
I was lying in bed thinking,
"If I could put my body through some kind of a meat-grinder or LaLane Juicer and rid myself of this demon I WOULD."
But that choice is not given me.
No level of want can create any change.

I think life must be a series of these.
Periods of waiting and waiting
and waiting.

(H)erbing

today I smelled the Spring air for the first time in a millenia -
I took my french pressed coffee out to the yard and planted the herbs for the restaurant. Just cool enough and just enough sun. Planted the basil, the dill, the rosemary, the mint, and the cilantro. My rainbow chard from the Fall is still going strong with no watering through the Winter. I figured they'd be dead through the Winter, but they never really died....they truly are a hardy Winter green (but I guess that's not saying much living in Houston). I refreshed the soil from the Fall. By now, the organic matter had really decomposed. Found earth worms as big as pencils turning a phosphorant green color. It was beautiful. Picked the weeds. Turned over the soil. Emptied the old water catcher. Showered them with water. Washed my hands.

I don't want you Bohemia
I don't want you Suburbia
I don't want you Third World
I only want this purple night
this dead dark path
this stone kicked over
twice.

On Preservation

The Rialto Theatre is the oldest theatre in the state of Arkansas. It sits on East Cedar Street in downtown El Dorado. It houses big screen movies, the symphony, and a few faceless ghosts. I took a picture of the inside four years ago. The pink walls, the green upholstery, the velvet red drapes: All of the interior took on a strange glow in my camera's sinister flash. I took flashless photos of the upstairs bathrooms. The cold afternoon shown on the white porcelain stalls, the white hexagonal floor-tiles. In the stockade of my dreams, black tarantulas were crawling from the sinks. I held them in my hands.

"The National Historic Preservation Act expresses a general policy of supporting and encouraging the preservation of prehistoric and historic resources for present and future generations, directing Federal agencies to assume responsibility for considering such resources in their activities. NHPA does not mandate preservation of such resources but requires Federal agencies to consider the impact of their actions on historic properties. The statute sets forth a multifaceted preservation scheme to accomplish these policies and mandates at the State and Federal levels."
--from the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966

I cannot tell you if the following is fact or fiction - if I dreamed these things or not: Texas. 1992. Sitting in my dad's old Toyota pickup. The brown leather seats, torn - showing the green foam beneath. We're treasure hunting. [no longer in the truck] We approach a number of grated porches. We duck under hammocked ceilings. We are opening wooden trunks with caution. Prince Albert tin-cans full of black hair clippings. Old baby shoes that my step-mom puts in Wal-Mart bags to restore later with shoe paints. We are harvesting bottle dumps. The sound of my father's metal detector causing us to stop in our tracks. We look at the photos of black people. The ones that used to live here. We save them for no reason at all. We are taking what isn't ours.

Years later, in an event which I can certify as fact, I was walking along the school grounds of the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, North Carolina. I have a picture to prove it. My pulling out my 35mm was one of a series of birth pangs to follow. It was Thanksgiving 2007. The old cabin sat there in clear day. I was all alone. My grandfather sat in the truck a few yards away waiting for me. [Snap]



I approached the window and saw inside. [Snap]



Old beds with quilts. Their artistry veiled with the dust and all. The metal kitchenware sitting on the high shelf. The bare rocking chair. The windows had bars protecting them. They didn't want anyone inside. They hadn't marked the building. They hadn't, it appeared, touched it at all.

"The earliest Federal preservation statute was the Antiquities Act of 1906, which authorized the President to set aside historic landmarks, structures, and objects located on lands controlled by the United States as national monuments. It required permits for archeological activities on Federal lands, and established criminal and civil penalties for violation of the act. The Historic Sites Act of 1935 was the second major piece of Federal historic preservation legislation. This act declared it national policy to preserve for public use historic sites, buildings, and objects of national significance and directed the Secretary of the Interior to conduct various programs with respect to historic preservation. Although these statutes were significant, they did not create a national awareness of the need for preservation or provide a means to incorporate preservation concerns into Federal agency programs."
--from the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966

More Photos of relics:

- Italianate facades of St. Louis
- Folk homes of Georgia
- Clapboard chapels of Louisiana
- Gothic cathedrals of London

James Agee filled my heart with contentment as I read of the tenant farmers. The way in which he described the shoes, the sound of night, their faces. The smells, or "odors" that he had to catalogue:

"The odor of pine lumber, wide thin cards of it, heated in the sun, in no way doubled or insulated, in closed and darkened air. The odor of woodsmoke, the fuel being again mainly pine, but in part also, hickory, oak, and cedar. The odors of cooking. Among these, most strongly, the odors of fried salt pork and of fried and boiled pork lard, and second, the odor of cooked corn. The odors of sweat in many stages of age and freshness, this sweat being a distillation of pork, lard, corn, woodsmoke, pine, and ammonia. The odors of sleep, of bedding and of breathing, for the ventilation is poor. The odors of all the dirt that in the course of time can accumulate in a quilt and mattress. Odors of staleness from clothes hung or stored away, not washed."
--from 'Let Us Now Praise Famous Men'



Perhaps I am drawn more to the life of it all - the living, the procreation, the feeding, the secrets, the games that made them smile. I know the Prince Albert Tin-Can is not questionable. My dad has it sitting on a bathroom shelf. If you open it, you will find the clippings of a black man's hair. Next to it, an old green tin of pomade. I smell inside the old bottles. The perfume, the mint oil, the cough syrup. The "odors" all smell ancient. Like kerosene. Like cold nights. In these odors I feel a great sadness which I cannot distill. They fuel in me a sedated fear, like the tarantulas crawling from the white sink. In dreams, the legs go limp. The body is tranquilized. I feel the ecstasy of time standing still.