Take care of yourself, this is your story Your voice is shakin’ the walls, and they’re crumbling down But what can I do ‘cept stand here watching you My fearful eyes are paralyzed with visions of tomorrows swept away
About Fanny, from California. In the United States. an American rock band, active in the early 1970s. They were one of the first all-female rock groups to achieve critical and commercial success, including two Billboard top 40 singles
“This could be a hell of a bad two weeks. This is going to be a very bad two, and maybe three weeks. This is going to be three weeks like we’ve never seen before,” Trump said at a White House press conference Tuesday. White House officials are projecting between 100,000 and 240,000 deaths in the U.S. with coronavirus fatalities peaking over the next two weeks. “When you look at night, the kind of death that has been caused by this invisible enemy, it’s incredible.”
Darkness darkness, be my blanket Cover me with the endless night Take away away the pain of knowing Fill the emptiness of right now Emptiness of right now Emptiness of right now
Not Bedouin, like we thought. Definitely not the Van Morrison variety. But certainly nomadic. Maybe by choice, maybe not. Not sure it matters.
These days we all wander through assorted social distancing deserts on the thirsty backs of our phones. In search of an eye or an ear. Social media touches. Dots. Likes. Tags. And so forth and so on.
I left social media when this barmy dotard was somehow elected to what was previously the most powerful office in the world. Over time I got drug back into it. Now it is it. All there is.
It occurs to me that I’m not any more fit for this new is than the last one.
I did re-friend my pal Amos on Facebook, which helps a little. If he can operate in this new world, I should be able to do so. I really like that guy. I think he knows it. We are fellow first-world refugees.
I took the trash to the dump today, during my virtual lunch hour-and-a-half. There are a hundred thousand gnats buzzing around my ears and eyes. Only some of them are real.
On the way back, I stopped by HEB. Those folks are bringing it during these weird, dark times. No chicken livers to fry. But plenty of shrimp and iced tea. And bread.
You’re a lion’s tooth, I’m a piece of bread….
Had a few phone calls. One was dark, and one was bright and warm. Light, all of it. Or the absence thereof.
There are moths all over the house. We get along mostly.
Lights attract all manner of things. There’s muted colors of green and red. More immediate blue. Some stuffy white. Some that dim for a second when the air conditioning comes on. Power darkens. Or something like that.
There aren’t many black lights anymore, like in that long ago barn loft we turned into a smoky, musical, safe haven.
Do you know why you see more white sheep than black ones? Because there are more of them.
Thom Jurek of AllMusic calls the song “the bitterest cut Jones ever recorded.” He claims he wrote it at 3 a.m. in the aftermath of the divorce, and it comes right from the Hank Williams tradition of catharsis songs.