The Travels and Rants Journal

Must. Dig. Hole.

Must. Bury. Self. In.

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There’s a dyin’ voice within me reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

-Bob Dylan, “Every Grain of Sand”

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten how much this movie affected me. Deeply. Completely. It’s not a stretch to say that a very large part of everything I think about art, about writing, about the generosity of the human spirit, about love - I got directly from Sophie’s Choice.

No wonder I’m so fucked up.

—–

Today. Near Harrisonburg.

Went to see Nels Cline last night at the Paramount. My impressions: Nels Cline is sick. Nels Cline is a musician’s musician. Nels Cline is waaaaaaaay more Wilco than Wilco (and I love Wilco) will ever be. Nels Cline makes music the way the rest of us want to make art. Nels Cline is from another planet.

But here’s the takeaway - the real note-to-self lesson: When you’re the coolest (and newest) member of the world’s coolest band, you don’t even need to acknowledge that band when you play without that band.

Remember that.

—–

South Boston:

I stepped up on the platform
The man gave me the news
He said, you must be joking son
Where did you get those shoes?

-Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, “Pretzel Logic”

It’s a beautiful day in Virginia when you get to see the republican party once again shoot itself in the foot (Raising Kaine).  See also Waldo’s take on the R-convention.
—–

From that hotbed of liberal activism, Lynchburg…