“Those Williams Boys, They Still Mean a Lot to Me”

I’m about to put this dog in the car and head out.  I’ve got nothing to look for, no place to see, but I’m antsy.

Something’s itching at my soul and I want to relieve it.

Newscoma’s post reminded me of it, not that I haven’t been thinking about it for days, but there’s ways we draw connections, make meanings between things, that are powerful.

Sometimes, those connections are light, like the connections we make between Hank Williams and Tennessee Williams.  It’s only when Don Williams (see?) sings them together that the connection is pulled tight, that we can feel the aesthetic tugs that says, “This means something.”

I wish I had Chris Wage’s eye.  I would take a million pictures of Nashville and lay them all around me and see if, from that, I couldn’t discern some message, some meaning.

I am near-obsessed with this idea of putting Mack on the ground and drawing around him a circle of corn meal and lighting some candles and smudging him with sage.

Ha, I was thinking about a time when I did that with two of y’all, put one of you on the outside of a salt circle with pen and paper in hand to write down what, if anything, we came up with.  And the two of us sat knee to knee hands in hands, me trying to pull you across.

And who came across?  Not you, but the freaked out girl on the couch, talking about the things she saw with such clarity.

That’s the funny thing about all this woo-woo shit; they tell you–they being pretty much everyone–not to attempt anything until you know what you’re doing.  But how can you know what you’re doing if you haven’t tried some shit to find out?

If the world is covered in loose connections, sometimes you just have to be willing to grab a hold of one and give it a yank, see where it leads.

I was going to make Stumpy the Coyote a hat, but I’ve decided against it.  What the boy really needs is a pack, a pack to put the shit the Universe hands him in.

I’ve got a John the Conqueror root lying around I can contribute and a dime and a penny for luck.  Any good border crosser needs tobacco to offer to the gods, but I’ll leave that to Mack to contribute.