Why Try? A Response, #SundayMusic with DJTwitter Tellio

Daniel Bassill responded to a post recently with question at the end that many of must confront over and over as we get closer and closer to our end.  He asked my, “Why do we try?”

I avoided the question for awhile. Who wouldn’t? Here is my response using only Randy Newman in my musical palette.  It is a dark and unrelenting palette, but it is honest. It is honest.



And my direct response to Daniel’s question: the only thing worse than not trying is not feeling.

A Story, A Poem, A Hybrid?

I was writing a small story today for my Mastodon account inspired by some field work I did yesterday. I was moving pasture fencing and taking a break from the hot sun.  The sheep were deep in the shadows. Me, too.

Here is my Mastodon story:

Here is a poem taken from it:

Farm Proverbs

 When you are working 
 in a field 
 the word shade’ has added meaning. 
 A breeze’ has even more meaning. 
 A breeze while resting in the shade carries deeper meaning still. 
 And still air is heavier than words can carry.  
 The sound of a horse fly 
 while sitting in the still air
  will fix anyone’s attention, 
  especially if they have felt its bite. 
  Words in the wild 
  unlike words on a page ever dreamed.
Here is a YouTube created from it using Lumen 5:

Get Busy Livin’ or Get Busy Dyin’

I got a little carried away with my emotions and rhetoric in the post below, but a very large chunk of me says that while I am busy hating here, I am also busy loving my little hollar and neighborhood and home and country, too.

This post and the gentle pushback by both Amy Perrault and Daniel Bassill is what keeps me going online.  These folk care and have an equally valid voice. That is no false equivalency.  Thanks to them for caring enough to join in and make sense.

The lesson here: Nazis, mind yer owned damned business and if you can’t do t…

The lesson here: Nazis, mind yer owned damned business and if you can’t do that then “fuck you”. The power of Charlottesville is that a bunch of outsiders got told “fuck you” by a bunch of native sons and daughters.