You know I saw Miss Lucy
Down along the tracks,
She lost her home and her family
And she won’t be coming back — Doobie Brothers
Dig a hole and make it deep
To bury these lovers in
But bury my wife on the top
As she was of noble kin — Matty Groves, trad.
And from his heart a red red rose
And from her heart a briar — Bab’ry Allen, Trad
I’m sicker than a goat who ate a volkswagon a water melon and a bottle of Prozac. Yes, I don’t know if that’d make a goat sick either. I’ve been around goats with some frequency, never seen a sick one. The phrase, of course, in American English is sicker than a dog. I don’t know a dog who would eat a volkswagon, except maybe Levi if he thought it was filled with peanut butter, or Herschel if it had peanut butter on the outside. We empathize with dogs, a sick dog looks really miserable to us. I think a sick goat might look funny, I don’t know. I’m talking about yucky sick, not like goat cancer.
I had some kind of theological revelation this morning, it’s a bit foggy now. I was going in between chills and fever an bad tummy mojo and oh god oh god oh god turned into prayers, personal ones. I think people who are too hung up on the existence or lack of existence of god are missing out on the nature of prayer. The holy roller repeats prayers he heard in church, temple, mosque, ashram, wherever, the atheist doesn’t pray at all. It’s a meditative way of placing the problem externally, saying it out loud to gain some internal locus of control.
It’s the next day and I’m feeling better, at least less gross. The lyrics at the beginning are just from my head, they bear no significance, or rather no significance in the context of this entry. In a broader sense music, Art and Literature may be the only things that bear significance, as long as I’m playing feverishly with internal and external locus of control and theology, that’s what I believe.
Music art and literature are the closest thing to what I imagine the soul of mankind is. Not as empirical as industry or science, not as cruel as politics or medicine, or not, more like an abstract mirror of the whole spectrum, like a shared dream, an uneven mix of reality and surreality (hmmm, I guess I just made that word up, English is a funny language, the word follows it rules, but Word doesn’t seem to recognize it.).
I want to bad mouth 2015, but as I think on it, I’ve done that with too many years. I can either think of it as a year of crumbling walls and decay, or I can try to build new walls and breathe new life. I know it’s like hoping your goat will pass a volkswagon, fifty fifty shot, and will flood his hatchet shaped head with serotonin, much less likely than fifty fifty.
May your Christmases be bright or whatever they are supposed to be. I mean I love you all and hope for the best, I don’t quite understand Christmas. Charlemagne really fucked things up. Between the romans and the Vikings most Europeans have that drive, that manifest destiny. It’s no wonder they sent the overly pious to settle this colony I’m writing from. Well, not exactly, Michigan has a storied past, no pilgrims, but French missionaries. Men like Marquette, quite a different breed.
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