“We do not have to be ashamed of what we are. As sentient beings we have wonderful backgrounds. These backgrounds may not be particularly enlightened or peaceful or intelligent. Nevertheless, we have soil good enough to cultivate; we can plant anything in it.”
― Chögyam Trungpa, Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism
Let’s see here
There is a certain something, Isn’t there?
Before I have even started to look, I’d found that sound in the cicada songs
and maybe in the sound of the thunder.
Sure, I was alone and it was night but now, I question that.
It always feels like, seems like, looks like light.
When the guru passed did we know? Did we get the message?
This is going to be his last word but what is it that we all hear, here?
Chogyam, dear rinpoche, what did you say? “Pass me another gin”?
it seems to elude me today.
Slower, Slower now
The earth underfoot
The sun rises again
Yes, I’ve been redeemed again.
And then the night, it comes to this.
First fire – the two worlds have crossed.
My heart bleeds his words.
Red wine and this things.
It did break.
These things never truly heal.
Would it be an homage or just more bloodletting?
Tell them all I’ll let them know as soon as I know. For sure.
Between you and I, I’m a shit talker and I’ll never really know.
First, I find that when something is deep I am shallow. Forgive me for my inability to articulate now…
Every Day for as long as I have known who I am, I have found the soundtrack to my life in the music of Jason Molina. Everything I thought I wanted to capture in photos, he was able to convey in his music.
It split my heart, last weekend, when when I learned of his passing.
Back when I scribbled, I had the chance to meet him and interview him, along the railroad tracks, under the moon, with beers in hands. I am grateful for this wonderful, cherished memory.
Along this life here now, I hear his songs all the time. These hills of Asheville seem to fit the music better than any other.
I wish him safe passage on this old highway.
The only thing that matters is the sound of your voice
In my ear
Barely above a whisper.
I often think I was intended for another time.