December Revealed & Reveling

Writing to you from the couch in Roundagator, Wilbur under the blanket next to me, the sun finished rising for the morning, halfway into the first cup of coffee.

December 30th 7:54 am - 

7:15 am - “frittata recipe” 

7:50 am - “how to tell when frittata is done” 

Thin near invisible salmon bones, I guess I did’t know they made salmon-in-a-can until a year ago, tapered-shaped and this one is red. Carefully picking through the rib bones like pieces of glass, taking it apart. Like this summer in the carport snapping beans, a whole table of them, thinking this will never get done all the way. Washing and tearing greens, a whole sink full, this will never get done all the way. Sweeping, dusting, mopping, back in Cleveland with a dread until I realized it’s some kind of privilege or some kind of prayer, to be present there at the sink with the heaters purring and everyone in the house and cornbread batter just poured into the skillet and I can stand here and snap beans or wash greens or pick bones or mop because it’s like the dog sniffing the air, all there, all present, alive. There is no where I need to be but right here, now.

The ground blue with frost this morning and it makes the world look different with a bright yellow (colorless bright) sun burning up through the air, the moon going to sleep after his shift, sinking down past the ragged blue green blur of cedars still heavy with berries. 

We walked down a dry creek bed where some mud still thrilled you with it’s pull, like maybe the quick sand was still waiting somewhere. Following the lended grace of a deer path, all like a ghost town with no animals against the cold and against the drought and we walked up the turn row then down into the woods, one of these real good December sunsets, red all along everything making the world look sort of miraculous and sort of like I could’t open my eyes wide enough to see it all. 

Walking into the gulley of another field, they worked on it this fall I guess, put new pipes in, dragged some dirt out, pressed everything into place for spring. Weaving down into it so we can climb back up out of it, a red balloon heart caught in the bramble, slowly to the bayou, watching into the woods that are so open in winter, the neighbor’s house revealed now, miles away. He’s got this painting where there’s a house illuminated, it’s reflection glowing in the water, looks like that. Shining, becoming. Thinking, I can see my mind walk out infront of me trying to look further, to walk back down hill. Stop, don’t, don’t think down into the ravine if you don’t have to. 

In January 2023, she said something like, we will never believe where we are by the end of the year. It will be some where so different. I thought I had found the end-all and the be-all, and in January, December was exciting because it was so unthinkable, another year all open and new ahead of us. It would be easy to tally the losses, there would be many. The injustices and heartbreaks and missed chances. I didn’t think changing was as hard as it was, I didn’t think change could happen with so little fanfare. 

The sun has moved and rises through a different window, winding back slow to where it used to be. He said, I think I got high on the moon - all of the colors in the belt of Venus against it, the shadow of the earth crawling into the sky. Somehow glowing in it’s falling darkness. 

Seeds ordered, asparagus mowed, bird food, plans - hope. Life continues.

Last night it seemed like he invented a terrifically Lewis Nordan notion; when they were kids they’d ride an hour to get milkshakes, and on the way back there was this alley where all of the deer were. They’d ride down there slow, playing music with lots of bass. He says, deer like the sound of it. They’d walk right up to your car. So we went out creeping past Wonderlight City in the moonlight with music breaking into the dark of the woods. Turn your lights off. Laughing at the absurdity of it, picturing a legion of ghost colored deer following us. A possum in the back seat, spotlight, skunk. 

All of it leads to all of it. When I thought I had found it, it was still ahead of me. The future is yet to be revealed. Why all of this had to happen is not yet known, but one day it will be, and we can all smile at the hurt of it turned into something so good. 

Wishing you peace. Don’t forget your new year’s day meal tomorrow. A little luck & superstition won’t hurt. We have some extra mustard greens if you need them.

Thank y’all - thank you for sending the songs that made you cry via email and text and comment. That means so much to me. The whole year does - the whole year did. It was so full it felt like three or four years. The familiar faces at shows, shared stories, kindness. Thank you. Even in the flurry of the work of it, it was all so beautifully surreal. Thank you.

Recently, i got hired as the programs director at Delta Arts Alliance, which starts in the new year. That means i would love to hear from you about what you wanna see going on in the great neighborhood of the Delta. Blah blah, the biggest export of the region after agriculture is art, blah blah, let’s keep nurturing it, pretty please.

The next chance at catching work will be Thursday, February 1st, 5-8 pm, at The Little Green Store in Hunstville, Alabama. Looking forward to be back on the mountain and in Alabama.

Lots of projects here and there in the works, excited to share them with you soon. Sending love and luck to you and yours into the new year. We got another chance at it, after all!

First, some irreverent humor in celebration of childhood cartrip cds and the newly departed.

and this song by Johnnie Frierson, a Memphis carpenter, mechanic, teacher, and vietnam vet. He recorded briefly with Stax, but this album (which is sweet and good all the way through) was from a cassette tape he recorded and gave away. Miracles, we can do them, have faith.