THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"...to marry purity of concept with human actuality, to instil right in reality and reality in right, that is the work of the wise."-Victor Hugo
Arrived back this afternoon from camping and prospecting with my son Asher, which included a successful gold panning excursion on the Kanaka Creek, new friends made and delicious meals enjoyed, and a transformative four-hour tour into the heart of the Sixteen-to-One mine, the oldest active gold mine in California, dating back to the 1800s (actually the only active one these days). It was so nice to be off the grid, and so nice to share an amazing time with my son…just him and I and the world to experience. Will dig in more to all of it next week, I think a nap is in order…but staring out the window over the city of San Rafael out past the Bay to Oakland thinking, we do live in a beautiful place. But damn, no matter where you live, it sure is nice to leave it all behind and disappear for a short while.
Shabbes! Have a nice weekend!
Nick Cave recalls eerie story involving Nick Drake and Velvet Underground’s Nico
How can you look away from this headline? Besides the fact that all three have made incredible music…and all three either are or have been difficult personalities…this kind of story can only go in a weird direction. And it kinda does (how many Velvet-oriented articles will I post? How many licks does it REALLY take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?). Thank you Todd Krieger for sending this article along.
Booker Prize Longlist Is Unveiled
With all the Hugo I have been reading I am very much behind the great books of the day. I need to read Ishiguro’s new one….and many others.
There has been a lot written about Dusty Hill over the past day. Hearing about him from the beautiful words of his long time publicist Bob Merlis was the most poignant. Thank you, Bob. I saw ZZ Top last a few years ago with my friend Jeff Greenberg, who has since passed away as well. They were so great that night; what a perfect rock band. RIP Dusty.
The Town of Coca-Cola Millionaires
“How Quincy, Florida became the richest town per capita due to one man's shrewd business acumen and taste for fizzy drinks. “
Emily Brontë’s Lost Second Novel
Today we celebrate the birth of Emily Brontë, which makes it a good a time as any to dive into the theories behind her unfinished novel. The article seems right out of one of her novels, with its first few lines: “One can only imagine what was going through Charlotte Brontë’s mind the day she knelt by the blazing fireplace in Haworth Parsonage, her family home, with her dead sister Emily’s unfinished manuscript clutched in her hands.”
WEEKEND LISTEN: Rough and Rowdy Ways by Bob Dylan
Two days ago after successfully panning for gold, Asher and I took a dirt road from Allegheny to Forest to Downieville, traveling along the mountain passes. Asher dozed off and I threw this record on the car stereo…a record that always seems to sound real sweet when I listen to it, but one that I had yet to really do a deep dive into. Don’t let the crap cover fool you: Rough and Rowdy Ways is truly a classic Dylan record where the legend takes his Nobel Prize and creates a platform for his music that is almost like a spoken word record telepathed through the ghosts of the Sun Studio house band…it is almost like listening to the Oracle of Delphi give an account of life lessons. The music is slowwwww Americana with grooves that hold it together like clothes on a wind-hit line. Dylan seems beyond the ethereal plane throughout, beyond the emotions of mere mortals. But still knows how to nail a song’s hook that just sticks with you long after. This record is a big thing.
The Layers
By: STANLEY KUNITZ
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
