Watching a bluegrass festival on California public broadcast television--surrounded on all sides by more artificial wood panneling than any one man was ever meant to tollerate--I wonder what my conscience is. I wonder how a mind can be conflicted. And the little pain in the back of my throat feels like a misplaced patch of desert. Where did the water go?...
And now my thoughts all return to stardust (what an amazing young lady she is).
I think I like bluegrass music, in moderation. The harmonies are too redundant.
And life really is too short for redundant harmonies.
(Bring on the banjo)
About Me
- Kyle
- There are poets and thinkers and dreamers. They are everywhere. Distributed like heavenly sprinkles, they cling to the places where the frosting hasn't hardened from age and exposure. But some sprinkles get trapped in the crevices created by the knife or the spatula or the pre-pubescent finger that has so adorned the earth with this miracle frosting. Those sprinkles tend to fall off. When you tip the cupcake to your lips, before you can even taste them--before their potential can be realized at all--they are cast to the floor of the bakery. The classroom. The kitchen. The mini-mart… These are the sprinkles that get swept away and vacuumed up and sent someplace else. The journey ahead of them is long and arduous, but they must find their way back to the surface of things. Back to the sticky-sweetness of reality--the substance of waking life…. I am such a sprinkle. And I’ve accepted that.