The lonesome friends of science say “This world will end most any day” Well, if it does, then that’s okay ‘Cause I don’t live here anyway I live down deep inside my head Well, long ago I made my bed I get my mail in Tennessee My wife, my dog and my family
—John Prine, Lonesome Friends of Science (2018)
Another short post this morning. Not even the normal triad of word, image and song since the chorus from the song is serving as the word leg of the three-legged stool I am building here.
So, it’s a two-legged stool. Hope, it stands up.
At least for today.
The same goes for me.
Here’s the song, Lonesome Friends of Science, from John Prine‘s last album, The Tree of Forgiveness, from 2018. As you might know, John Prine passed away in 2020 from covid. II am using the painting above, Echoes of Time, because this morning I am seeing it as that tree of forgiveness as John Prine put it.
What we, thanks to Jung, call “synchronicity” (coincidence on steroids), Buddhists have long known as “the interpenetration of realities.” Whether it’s a natural law of sorts or simply evidence of mathematical inevitability (an infinite number of monkeys locked up with an infinite number of typewriters eventually producing Hamlet, not to mention Tarzan of the Apes), it seems to be as real as it is eerie.
-Tom Robbins, The Syntax of Sorcery (2012)
I came across the passage from author Tom Robbins, who died in February at the age of 92, while doing some research. One phrase from it, “the interpenetration of realities,” really jumped out at me. I am not ready to tell you what I was researching or why the phrase struck me as it did. That will be forthcoming and self-evident in the coming weeks.
But I will say that, for some reason, it reminded me of a favorite song, That’s the Way the World Goes Round, from the late John Prine. I think it has something to do with the constancy of the inevitabilities of life– the sun coming up and the sun going down, the tide coming in and the tide going out, the joy and sorrow that comes with living and dying, and so on. They all come to us at some point while this old world just keeps turning round.
That doesn’t really answer anything about the interpenetration of realities, does it? All I’ll say is that it made me wonder if the rhythms of our life cycles are modulated by other dimensions or worlds of reality that we may never know. Do they serve as a sort of unseen natural force, much like gravity, that keeps on track?
I don’t know. But rereading that just now makes me wonder if there was a little something extra in my coffee this morning.
I think I’ll just leave it there for now and share the song with the promise that I will sometime soon explain how the interpenetration of realities comes into play. Well, that is if I don’t forget…
The creative action is not voluntary at all, but automatic; we can only put the mind into the proper attitude, and wait for the wind, that blows where it listeth, to breathe over it. Thus the true state of creative genius is allied to reverie, or dreaming.
–Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table (1858)
Many of us walk a fine line between remaining engaged with the outer world with all its chaotic madness and escaping into the dreamlike quietude of our inner world. I think we need to keep the two somewhat in balance, to never reside fully in one.
For as much as the inner world nourishes our souls and dreams, we can’t reside in that place entirely. And try as we may, we can never fully retreat from intrusive reality of the outer world. It is always lurking nearby and must be dealt with.
But we need to maintain that inner world, that place to dream and expand. A place where we can float on a warm breeze, unburdened by the weightiness and gravity of the real world.
I am not sure what brought this on this morning. Maybe I felt the need to avert my eyes from the outer world for a moment? Nobody could be blamed for that in this strange moment. We all need to visit that inner world for at least a short time every now and then, if only to be reminded of what we are looking for in the outer world.
The question is: Can the dreams of our inner world ever come to reality in the outer world?
That’s a big philosophical jumping off point that I am not willing to leap from just this minute. Like most people, I have outer world needs to which I need to attend. But in doing so, I will bring my inner world along with me.
Maybe I’ll ponder that question at some point while I am floating on a breeze. Maybe not.
Here’s a song from the late John Prine that I’ve loved for a long, long time. It still gets to me after hearing it countless times. It’s a live performance of Hello in There from 2001. It’s a song about aged folks who live in an outer world that has passed them by and now ignores and they have retreated into their inner world which is filled with more memories and images from the past and fewer dreams for the future. But in those remaining dreams, they might sometimes be floating on a summer breeze. And this line from the song’s chorus surely might be echoing there as well:
Ya’ know that old trees just grow stronger And old rivers grow wilder ev’ry day
A bitter wind blows through the country A hard rain falls on the sea If terror comes without a warning There must be something we don’t see What fire begets this fire? Like torches thrown into the straw If no one asks, then no one answers That’s how every empire falls.
— R.B. Morris, That’s How Every Empire Falls
I had a post here about eight years ago featuring a song performed by John Prine, That’s How Every Empire Falls. In recent days, that particular post has garnered quite a few views. I sometimes find it interesting how the number of views for certain posts from the past jump upward with what is taking place in the world at any given moment.
For example, a post from 2011 titled Then Who Do We Shoot? which was about the film The Grapes of Wrath has spiked upward in recent weeks. The title of that post referred to a question in the film asked by the sharecropper Muley to the bank’s henchmen who were evicting him from his family farm. Muley wanted to know who could be held responsible and the bank guys gave him the big runaround, saying that nobody was to blame, that all the people involved were just obeying orders and doing their jobs.
It seemed pertinent to this moment in time. As does the post with That’s How Every Empire Falls. Written in the early 2000’s by singer/songwriter R.B. Morris, it is a song that feels prophetic now, nearly 25 years later.
It is a simple but elegant song consisting of five stanzas, the first four describing some sort of moral compromise or failing. The first is man who is fleeing his past and the decisions he made that went against what he knew to be right. The second describes how religion is twisted in ways by men to serve their own purposes. The third is about alienation and estrangement within families and how love is often withheld. The fourth is about a man whose job requires him to do things that are morally wrong even though they may be legally correct, using the I’m Just Obeying Orders defense as justification for his actions.
The fifth and final stanza brings it all together though in the current environment it might be viewed as additional moral failing, as an indictment of the media’s failures in holding people’s feet to fire, opening the door for a growing normalization and acceptance of corrupt and criminal behavior across government and society. As the final lines say:
If no one asks, then no one answers That’s how every empire falls.
It’s a powerful yet delicate song. Our democracy might also be viewed in the same way. It’s held together with little more than shared belief, so much so that accepting even a little moral sloppiness can allow it to come apart. When we ignore or shrug off the moral and ethical bankruptcy that is unveiling before us, we have all but thrown in the towel on our democracy.
That’s how every empire falls.
Below is the song in its original form performed by R.B. Morris. I think its starkness is its power. The lyrics are below if you want to read along.
Caught a train from Alexandria Just a broken man in flight Running scared with his devils Saying prayers all through the night Oh but mercy can’t find him Not in the shadows where he calls Forsaking all his better angels That’s how every empire falls
The bells ring out on Sunday morning Like echoes from another time All our innocence and yearning and sense of wonder left behind Oh gentle hearts remember What was that story? Is it lost? For when religion loses vision That’s how every empire falls.
He toasts his wife and all his family The providence he brought to bear They raise their glasses in his honor Although this union they don’t share A man who lives among them Was still a stranger to them all For when the heart is never open That’s how every empire falls
Padlock the door and board the windows Put the people in the street “It’s just my job,” he says “I’m sorry.” And draws a check, goes home to eat But at night he tells his woman “I know I hide behind the laws.” She says, “You’re only taking orders.” That’s how every empire falls.
A bitter wind blows through the country A hard rain falls on the sea If terror comes without a warning There must be something we don’t see What fire begets this fire? Like torches thrown into the straw If no one asks, then no one answers That’s how every empire falls.
I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, compassion. These three are your greatest treasures. —Lao Tzu
Trying to get the new year kicked off in the right way with the words above from Lao Tzu, the Chinese philosopher and father of Taoism. I am not a big fan of resolutions but do believe in reminders. It never hurts to be nudged to the fact that those three things– simplicity, patience and compassion— are the basis for a satisfying and peaceful life. All three are critical in maintaining our balance amidst the machinations of the outer world.
I tend to believe that the three are inextricably connected, each providing sustenance and direction for the other two.
But like all great treasures, they are sometimes difficult to obtain and keep. I know that I sometimes feel like I am close to that mother lode of all three virtues, only to find that I have lost most of it.
Lost my patience with everything and everyone.
Lost any sense of simplicity through overthinking and overcomplicating things.
And worst of all, lost most of my compassion for others.
In such moments, I am penniless in the spiritual sense. And I can feel the darkness of this.
But if even a tiny iota of these three things remains, if my pocketbook for them is not totally empty, then there is hope. It seems that this is a treasure that builds quickly through an odd quirk: not through hoarding but through being generous in sharing this wealth with others.
Expending all three compounds their value in a way that would make the greediest hedge fund manager envious.
Well, maybe not that guy.
Anyway, after what felt like a bleak end to the last year, I find myself a bit short on all three things. A bit spiritually impoverished. What better time to begin to rebuild one’s treasure with the clean slate of a new year?
I’m game. What do I have to lose?
Here’s song that feels like it might fit the theme here. It’s about seeking simplicity, about cutting out all the detritus and clutter and finding one’s own little nirvana. This has been a favorite for over 50 years. Here’s the late John Prine and his Spanish Pipedream.
I came across the post below earlier this morning. It was posted several years back, just a couple of weeks after my father was admitted to to a local nursing facility, suffering from Alzheimer’s dementia. Four years have passed now and his condition has, unsurprisingly, deteriorated. He is now among the folks I describe in the the last paragraphs below. I visited this past week and basically just sat across from him, an enforced six feet away for safety’s sake, and looked at him as he lulled in his padded reclining wheelchair.
I called across to him several times throughout the visit, Basically, a hello in there kind of thing. But there was no response, not even a flutter of his closed eyes. He was there but he certainly was not there, as well. I wonder what part of his memories his mind was moving through at that time, what form of reality it was taking.
Anyway, here’s that post from several years back, including another great song from the late John Prine:
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I have a square cardboard box in one of the rooms of my studio. It’s not much to look at it and it certainly doesn’t have any significance attached to its exterior appearance. But for me it’s a treasure chest, my secret bounty. You see, this rather plain box holds hundreds of small pieces from my earliest forays in paint from twenty some years ago.
They are not significant to anyone other than me. If you were to look in it you might not feel anything more than you would from looking at the old buttons, matchbooks and other tiny souvenirs of times past in someone else’s dresser drawers.
Many are clumsy attempts and most are deeply flawed in some way. But for me, they hold so much more deep meaning than is apparent from a first look. They are my artifacts, my history, my ponderings, my inner thoughts and my memory.
They are me.
There’s always a special feeling when I delve into them, like that feeling of looking at old family photos and vividly remembering moments that seem to have happened eons ago. I sometimes marvel at the brightness of my youth at that point and sometimes frown at the foolishness of it. I see where I thought I was going and can compare it to where I finally landed. There are ideas there that are dismal failures that make me smile now and make me wonder if I should have pursued them further.
And there are some that make me happier now than when they were done. Time has added a completeness to them that was lacking then.
And there are pieces like the untitled one above from back in 1994 that make me just stop and wonder where they came from. They seem like lost memories. I know I made this piece up in my mind but can’t remember why. I have skimmed over it a hundred times and never given it more than a shrug. But today I find myself looking intently at it as though it holds something for me that I can’t just pull out of it.
There’s a frustration in that but since I know that it is mine, I don’t really mind. I will have it for years to come and can question it again and again. Maybe my mind will release the secret or at least form a substitute reality at some point, one that brings me closure of some kind.
Who knows?
Today’s Sunday Morning music deals a bit with some of the same feelings. Well, I think it does. It’s Hello In There from John Prine. Visiting my father in the nursing home has been hard, not just for the visits with him which still leave me shaken a little after each visit, but for the sight of the other older folks in even deeper states of dementia as they sit in their chairs in the hallways and dining rooms. There is a lonely blankness in their eyes that is heart-breaking. You wish you could reach into them and pull their old self out in the open if only for a moment. But all you can do is say hello and hope they hear the words and the feeling in it.
Anyway, this is a great old song from John Prine. I hope you’ll give it a listen and have a great day.
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Well, our first Virtual Gallery Talk from the West End Gallery has went by the wayside. Whew.
It was such a different experience from in person talks that I am still processing it. I will most likely address it in greater detail in coming days, including answering some of the questions that were asked in greater detail.
I am fairly happy with it thus far. And the feedback has been very good thus far. One unfortunate aspect was that I wasn’t able to see or hear the folks watching and we’re working to address that for future streaming events.
It was much more difficult than I had expected when the idea of doing this first came up. I know when it ended, the strain of it hit me almost immediately. Within minutes of it ending, I felt like I had been beat on with bag of pennies. I expected a sense of relief but wasn’t expecting that.
But it’s done. There’s something to build on now, to make future ones much better.
I want to extend a warm thank you to everyone who tuned in yesterday. There were well over a hundred viewers from 18 states and 4 different countries. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate those of you out there who took the time to listen to me yammer on for a while. I hope it made some sense for you and you feel that it was time well spent.
I also want to thank Jesse, Linda and John at the West End Gallery for giving me the opportunity and for the massive effort they put out in making it happen.
Though I hopefully look forward to standing in front of an audience for a gallery talk, here’s to more and better streams in the future. If you tuned in yesterday and have comments or criticisms that you think will help us make our presentations better, please let me know so we can improve. Thanks!
For this Sunday Morning Music, here’s a song I referenced yesterday from John Prine, I Ain’t Hurtin’ Nobody.
I still am pretty busy working on my next show that opens in July at the West End Gallery. Little time, much to do, and lethargy to overcome. So, this morning I am just going to share a song and the painting above, In the Year 2020, that’s still at the Principle Gallery as part of my current show there. I just like looking at this piece. Brings me comfort in some way.
The song is the last song John Prine recorded before he died from the covid-19 virus. It’s called I Remember Everything. It’s classic Prine and a fitting final song.
A few days ago, a good friend introduced me to a singer/songwriter I had never heard, a fellow by the name of Dan Reeder. My friend had stumbled on this fellow and had discovered that he was on Oh Boy Records, the label that John Prine recorded on and founded almost forty years ago. That this Reeder follow was Oh Boy was enough to make me want to give it a listen.
Glad I did.
It’s considered “outsider modern folk” which is probably an apt description of John Prine’s music as well. You can hear echos of the John Prine influence in his music but he definitely has his own frank perspective on the world.
The song I am showcasing is Clean Elvis just because it made me smile — not always an easy things these days– plus I wanted to show the old painting at the top, a favorite of mine called Elvis in the Wilderness from 2006, I think. Part of the Outlaws series. It’s one of those pieces I wish I had never let go.
I am also throwing in a lovely, gentle song called Maybe that has a real Prine feel in its tone and message.
So, give a listen. And to my old pal Clifford who lives out in the greater Amesbury area, thanks for the intro to Dan Reeder. I have a feeling he will be on my playlist for some time to come.
Charley bought some popcorn Billy bought a car Someone almost bought the farm But they didn’t go that far Things shut down at midnight At least around here they do Cause we all reside down the block Inside at ….23 Skidoo.
–John Prine, Jesus, The Missing Years
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Though I am not what you would call a religious person, I do love good gospel music and am often moved by it. Usually, on Easter, I use the occasion to highlight this powerful music. I’ve highlighted the music of the great Mahalia Jackson and Sam Cooke‘s incredible work with the Soul Stirrers before he became the pop legend we all now know.
But on this Easter Sunday, as a small homage to the death of John Prine, I thought I’d play his song Jesus, The Missing Years. It’s not gospel but is a beautiful example of his humor and songwriting skills. I am using a live version because the intro to the song makes me chuckle. The song was originally from his 1991 album, The Missing Years, which is a favorite of mine with many memorable songs. I am going to throw another one in at the bottom.
The painting at the top also makes me chuckle and it’s sort of Easter related. I remember painting it about 25 years ago. The color in the sky got away from me and skewed a lot more pink than I liked. It just felt so wrong and when I looked at it all I could see was a pastel Easter egg. It kind of miffed me a bit and I scrawled the title under it that lives with me to this day–Its Easter! So Kiss My Ass.
As I said, I am not a particularly religious guy. I did, however, crop that part out of the image above.
This painting, a small one, never left my studio, of course. But I still like to pull it out once in a while. I have a laugh every time I do and it has actually grown on me. The pink of the sky doesn’t feel like such an egregious violation now. It’s a lovely little piece that I now find soothing when I look past that memory and title.
I wish you a nice Easter Sunday, if that is part of your faith.
I have a square cardboard box in one of the rooms of my studio. It’s not much to look at it and it certainly doesn’t have any significance attached to its exterior appearance. But for me it’s a treasure chest, my secret bounty. You see, this rather plain box holds hundreds of small pieces from my earliest forays in paint from twenty some years ago.
Redtree Times 