“He came to the Opry one night. I was still on, but he’d cussed the booker out, the Opry, Capital records, and anyone connected with the Louvin Brothers.
Well, Bill Monroe wouldn’t let nobody even touch his mandolin. If you wanted to see that mandolin, he’d hold it, turn it over and let you see the back of it, maybe, and that’s as close as you’d get to seein’ that mandolin.  But Ernest Tubb said (and, of course, Monroe was standin’ close by), “Why don’t you boys come over?”  Earnest was a get-things-back-together man.  He said, “Why don’t you come over and do a couple of songs on the midnight jamboree at the record shop?”  And Ira says, “I ain’t got no mandolin.” And Bill Monroe stepped up and said, “You can use mine.”
And so we did. We went over and did those two songs.
Then we went down to Line Boss, which was a restaurant about 2 to 3 doors from the Ernest Tubb’s record shop on Broadway.  We went down, and Ira carried the mandolin back, and I went with him.  Him and Monroe was talkin’, and Monroe told him what songs he’d like to have Ira sing at his funeral. Then Ira kinda laughed, and says, “Well this is what I want you to sing at mine.” – Charlie Louvin

‘There is a beautiful story in Proust: A sad man whose wife has just died sees
a friend going to commit suicide. They pass through a garden and he says to
his friend, “Look at these flowers, so beautiful. Look at the blue sky.” Seeing
these things, the friend forgets to kill himself. He survives because he forgets.
Sometimes we need to forget. For this reason, I do nothing, and I only wait to die.
We must be friendly with dying. To be alive is to be honest.’
– Christian Boltanski


October 29th “How strange: her voice, which I knew so well, and which is said to
be the very texture of memory (‘the dear inflection…’), I no longer hear. Like a
localized deafness…”

October 27th “Every morning, around six-thirty, in the darkness outside, the metallic
racket of the garbage cans. She would say with relief: the night is finally over (she
suffered during the night, alone, a cruel business).”


Those winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

We are all so complicated, and then we die. We are a subject one day,
with our vanities, our loves, our worries, and then one day, abruptly,
we become nothing but an object. We pass very quickly from one stage
to the next. It’s very bizarre. It will happen to all of us, and
fairly soon too. We become an object you can handle like a stone, but
a stone that was someone.
—Christian Boltanski


by Richard Hoffman

The alarm clock buzzes but I am
dreaming of a tall field in August

As if the field were on fire
lots of other tiny insects pop and crack
from stalk to stalk

there are people waiting for me
but I am unaware of them now

They think I am late.


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