storytelling

So, $600.00 smak-a-roos?

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I read a quote this morning from Woody Guthrie.

“Just decide what you want to write about. Then you decide why you don’t want to write about it. Then you climb gently and sweetly up to your paper, and with a pen, pencil or typewriter thoroughly cocked and primed … just go ahead and WRITE IT.”

This is the third day I have woke up at almost 6 a.m. on the dot. I love waking up early before everyone else. Today what I want to write about is writing. What I don’t want to write about is anxiety and depression … and finding a way to fund-raise for projects. Or just the business side of writing at all. What I certainly don’t want to write about is AI writing. So lets save writing about Artificial Intelligence for another day and write about anxiety, depression, writing and money. Let’s call that supporting the arts. The money part, that is. One of the first books I can remember reading all the way through was Seven Arrows by Hyemeyohsts Storm. I was about seventeen when I read it. The reason I mention that I read it all the way through was because in my schooling, not once did I read a book cover to cover and not once did I write a paper. I did what is called fall through the cracks. I quit school at sixteen and got a General Education on Decency. GED.

When I found at age seventeen or so L.S.D., Native American books, Bob Marley, Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead … reading was not something I was into. Listening certainly was my way of learning and to make things easier Seven Arrows had pictures and a teaching story that has stuck with me all the way to where I sit, even now, cuddled up to my laptop sweetly writing just as Woody Guthrie suggested in that Instagram Post from the Woody Guthrie center. That post with the quote was the first thing I saw today on a screen. Wake and scroll some might call it.

The teaching story in the book Seven Arrows is a public domain story that has been passed down from several different sources. It is a classic hero’s journey story where the hero in the story, a small mouse, leaves the comforts of home to travel down life’s long lonesome highway straight into the riding off into the sunset motif. Transformation with a happy ending. The story is like one of those old AAA Triptick flippable road-maps, or for the new generation of folks, the story is like Google Maps for what happens when you decide to finally do that thing that you have just got to do against all advice. Partly, anxiety can be from not knowing what is going to happen. Depression can come from dealing with the result of what happened and not knowing how to navigate the truth of the matter, when life shows you the raw details of just how mean and nasty this world and people can be. Especially to seekers and visionaries.

One of the life lessons to be learned from the story is when the little mouse finally up and leaves the small community of other mice and goes off in the direction of what has been driving the little mouse crazy. It was a roaring sound. It was that rolling thunder of thoughts that can drive a person crazy when they just got to get the fuck outta whatever they might be stuck at. The mouse runs off, leaving its friends behind and then something wild and wonderful happens. The little mouse comes back to the circle of friends and finds that all the friends are just the same and now suspicious of the little mouse. The, You Can’t Go Home Again, idea. Back when I was doing acid and being all hippie this story meant something different than it does now. What that story is now and has become over time is more like a mirror. Every time I read it, it does more to reflect what I am doing now, like what am I thinking about when I read it. Where am I in the Medicine Wheel of life.

I think I should have been a Psychologist. Or maybe a Spiritual Leader or something, however, the last thing I would want to do is be all groovy and weird or creepy and cheesy. Seven Arrows is a Native American “spiritual” book. Many of the books that I actually read after leaving school were what would be called “spiritual.” Back in my Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Bob Marley days, I was losing my religion so far as to say and needed something else to guide me into what was soon going to be one of the hardest, and sometimes when reflecting back on it, embarrassing times in my life. When manic depression gets a hold of ya, thoughts and prayers, just let go and let God just isn’t enough. At least not for me. I needed a road map to show me how to get back from the end. In my very humble opinion, this is what I find listening to many younger folks now. They lack the connective stories and life lessons that can come from teaching stories and mentoring.

I went into the kitchen a minute ago and had a thought about one of my other favorite teaching stories. It seems I learn a-lot from rodents. It is a Sufi teaching story, called The Cat Swami and the Rats, told by Muhammad Raheem Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. It’s a story about a sly cat in a grain house that tricks rats to trust him. To make a great story short, he ends up eating them one by one. What I learned from that story is to not take the guru spiritual thing too seriously and always questions the motives of anything I take on to be my guide. Back in my day, new age religion was back in town and everyone in my circle was doing something with crystals, gurus, goddess stuff, mandalas, magnetic channeling of Thomas Merton, drums, drugs, acid whatever … palm reading, tarot cards.

So, to get back to what I don’t want to write about and do what to write about, I enjoy telling my life story, so as it helps others who may be questioning their faith, or thinking about doing drugs or goddess forbid, thinking about killing themselves. I can’t really talk about that subject because I never got that depressed and when talking about that subject, I can not offer anything except get expert help. But what I can talk about is transformation and going head first into places that you can not go back to, or even look back at, until you actually do that thing that some folks call, kill your self. The ego. The self. That sound inside your head that takes you places that sometimes you can not control. And that is what I think LSD taught me the most, was that I was not in control. Anxiety is sometimes that feeling of not being in control and wanting to be. To a control freak, LSD might help because for many hours, something else is guiding your mind, or at least has a grip on it and no matter how much you think you can, you can not make it stop.

My Son, who was eighteen at the time, took a whole bunch of mushrooms and ended up at the hospital getting his stomach pumped. He blacked out and was uncontrollable and somewhere in the trip, he broke one of his teeth. He told me when I asked him what he learned from his trip that he would not do mushrooms again. I told him good idea, but that doing something like that for many cultures is not something all that out of the ordinary. He is living with Native People out in Oklahoma and one of his Elders suggested he should visit the Peyote Church and do his trip with folks who know how to handle an eruption such as he experienced.

As a Father, I made a rule with my kid that we would not talk about drugs and smoking weed all the time. Kinda that, “I don’t want to hear about it, I am your Dad.” Like I don’t want to watch him climb up a very tall tree, or climb down the path of a 300 foot log slide that is so steep that you can’t see the bottom. He did that once. I had to walk away. I walked away from smoking weed, LSD and other intoxicants such as those drugs to work with kids and eventually work for the railroad. So let’s cut to the chase. Let’s get right down in the dirt about what I really don’t want to write about but I do and that is making money from writing.

I am a musician as well as a writer. I am also an Outlaw, but that is another topic I want to write about. Money. Yuk, I am an Anti Capitalist, so making money requires a serious discussion on commodities and the movement of cash through a system of economics. One of the ways you make money is by using a tool, and somehow possessing the tool makes you a crafts-person, and then you go and get a job and then the money comes rolling in. Like, busking for example. Standing out in the street where people are and using your guitar or whatever and singing a tune and the folks empty their pockets of spare change into a hat or some sort of bucket. But who has spare change anymore and what tool does a writer use? And who wants to “commodify” their hobby or turn their hobby in the arts into a job? Henry David Thoreau in his book, Walden Pond, uses his first chapter as a tool to let his critics and readers know what he did with his money all the way down to the penny. My dream would be to make about $600.00 dollars a month doing what I love. That doesn’t to me seem to much of a wild hair up my ass or what some might call a get rich quick scheme or even a hair brained idea.

Over the last few days of mentioning on Facebook that there is a way to support my writing fund, I raised $30 dollars. $10 dollars from three people. So in the vein of Thoreau, let’s talk. What would I do with $600.00 dollars and how would I make it? And even more important … you won’t get help unless you ask … so, please support my work and that means now you have a responsibility and you will have to use a tool, such as a debit card and Pay Pal. And see how cringe this whole topic can be? I am three hours into just this post and I will edit it and tweak it a bit. By the time I post this, I will have worked six or more hours with my laptop, mind and soul and be pretty wore out. I will think to myself and worry about some of the topics covered. Should I have said that stuff about suicide? And then I’ll hit the publish button and throw my work out into the world for all to see and that is somewhat of a liability and opening myself up for critical judgment. That is what this work is. Writing. It’s no joke and can be hard and exhausting.

So, $600.00 smak-a-roos? Where I am living now, I have health coverage because of socialized medicine. My rent is very low and I don’t consume that much. I like the small things in life such as rocks and feathers. So, my money goes pretty far. I am blessed and humbled by being taken care of by my situation in life. I am not rich by any means. I smoke and drink coffee. So, that is the worst place YOUR money might go. Into my belly might be another place. I may use some of it to support another writer or musician. If I do then we would have to have another conversation of circles and money moving in a localized free market system. Then we would be right back to square one talking about money. So, let’s get back to talking about the things we don’t want to write about. Politics, Religion and Drugs! Shall we?

I don’t like labeling things. Like socialist or spiritual or crazy. When things get a label, things are sent into the generalization bin and run a risk of being “too” something. Too radical, too religious, that kinda talk. One of the things I hope I can achieve by telling my thoughts like I do, is that it will help somebody get through life, whatever this is. I borrowed that from Kurt Vonnegut’s son. Vonnegut said something close to that was one of his favorite quotes. So to label myself, to generalize myself into a pigeon hole and paint myself with a wide brush, I might suggest that I am a spiritual person who believes in cooperative social circles that are created and maintained for the necessity of providing help or in the service of need. I would also call myself a person who has mental health issues because I have learned to deal with my manic/depressive mental illness. I am a fearless person sometimes and now we are back at that word, Outlaw.

I don’t have any tattoos and I don’t use drugs. So how could that make me an Outlaw? Well, I am not an Outlaw, but Willie Nelson is and Waylon Jennings was, no? There is a real gang from where I am from called the Outlaws Motor Cycle Club, MC. They are what is called 1 percenters because they represent the 1 percent of people in this world who do not give a fuck at all and will do whatever they want, whenever they want, and make no bones about it. I am not that. I am the other side of the spectrum from that. I am more like an Anarchist. And these days, being a socialist or anything in the shades of what some might call red can get you killed, or silenced, or removed from your position. That is why I like the word Outlaw. I live outside the law of whatever it might be that is said to be the rule. That is why I as a rule, don’t plan to make my blog a subscriber per month kinda thing. I have been told by some that that is the way to go. I would rather state my need and see if I can get that need met. We all need money in this pre-apocalypse clepto-capitalist global economy. No? I am non-violent as well and dedicated to non-violence almost as a religion.

So here we are at the conclusion of this post. Now I will wrap it all up and move on so I can get to the editing and tweaking part of this work. What I wanted to write about was faith, mental health and drugs. What I didn’t want to write about was money and the need for it. I did get to name drop some of my favorite famous people. Willie Nelson’s recording Red Headed Stranger got me through a divorce and that leads to another thing I wanted to write about and that was teaching stories and mentors. I hope you made it through this OK. Any questions? Ideas? Leave a comment and don’t forget to subscribe … (hehe). In conclusion, see ya soon and chow chow … Auf Wiedersehen –

Tschüss!

John Paul
Lustenau, Austria

circa 1990 in Cherokee Park, Louisville

Souvenirs

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Memories –

Once upon a time Bill Smith, aka “billy lee” a Louisville poet and writer was leaving to go to Ann Arbor for school. He and his wife was moving way too much stuff to a small college dorm and had rented a moving truck. They asked me to tag along to drive eight hours or so, to help with the move. I was in the truck with another feller and Bill and his wife was in a car. He told me he would buy us dinner. So, off to we went and Bill handed me and the driver of the moving truck ten bean burritos from Taco Belle and off we went to Michigan.

Once I fired a steamboat all the way to West Virginia from Louisville, Kentucky. It took seven days to get there. Something like that.

Once upon a time, I called Sun Ra’s house in Philly, to talk with Marshall Allen about visiting him and the Arkestra. He said come on over.

Went to Philly another time and visited a Sufi mystics fellowship and read some works he wrote that were not published. Ate mung bean curry for the first time. Prayed in his mosque.

Once in NYC, I met Hunter Thompson out on the balcony of the place where a group of beat poets were giving a presentation. He stole my lighter after asking where I was from. I told him, Louavul. He said, “yep, you are.” I didn’t know who he was at the time.

Me and Mark Anthony Mulligan drove to Leitchfield, KY once for fun. He was a homeless person and songwriter, artist who loved old gas station signs. We ate at the all you can eat Chinese buffet and then went home.

Hung out with Wendell Berry once in his truck. My son rode in the back with the dogs. We talked about railroading and sheep. My Son ran off into the woods and found some old glass bottles and a turtle shell.

Went to a biker bar in the West End of Louisville with my Step-Father and Mother once. The women were supposed to tack their panties on the door if it was their first time visiting. My Mom went to the bathroom and took off her grandma panties and put them up. She was my hero. I was maybe twelve at the time.

Saved a train hobo kids life once. He was in Nashville, TN. looking to get the hell out of town. I told him he could ride my train. He was somewhat delirious and overheated and needed help. He rode my train in the second engine and drank water and slept all night with his two pit bulls. I gave him my Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches.

Once upon a time, I saw Burrell Farnsley sitting with the bronze statue of his father, Mayor Charles Farnsley. He was sitting on the bench talking with his Dad, or so I found out when I asked him if he wanted a ride. He told me, “yes, let me finish talking with my Father.” Burrell used to come to a book store I worked at and bring muffins and the New York Times to the owner.

Once upon a time, in communication with Rumi translator and poet Coleman Barks, Coleman asked if, “white boys can sing the blues?” I told him that they could and that the blues were blue. He sent me a story about when he used to walk the wharf in Chattanooga, Tennessee and see people dancing on the Delta Queen Steamboat.

Was a judge in the Hobo Olympics out in Mt. Shasta, California once. Met guitar Whitey, he was an old Bo’ from back in the day. Took my son with me so he could see rebellious people. Met Utah Phillip’s Son and we played a gig in the town of Dunsmuir.

Can You Bodensee The Mountains?

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All is quiet. And I mean so quiet that I can hear that 440 electrical buzz sound in my head. This is so different than the airplanes rushing overhead every thirty seconds and a major interstate right in my backyard. My neighbors used to be The United Parcel Service by way of their world-port and my other noisy neighbor was the main traffic vein of the Eastern U.S.A, Interstate 65. There is an occasional sound of a car going down my street. There is home sounds like the sound of my laptop fan, but these sounds are the noises that I never heard before it got all quiet. This morning I woke up at 6:30. Went to bed aww, about midnight, slept all night and woke up to a dark, creaky old house suggesting to me with every step to the kitchen, that the coffee is so good. So, coffee brewing, time to roll a smoke, and pick up the cell phone and scroll the morning news paper screen.

The weather report around these parts is simple. Can you see the mountains? If you can’t see the mountains in the morning, prolly ain’t gonna be no sun all day. I do this every morning. I look out the kitchen window as I open the blinds and gaze at the far away Swiss Alps. The snow cover fluctuates from day to day. The ever changing colors are so different from the only other mountains I have ever seen. The Great Smoky Mountains are great sure, but this is another thing all together. Now that I have passed my German Language test, I think it might be time to get out and walk around some. The other day, I went fishing in lake Constance (Bodensee.)

Going fishing was the first time I had driven anywhere by myself. I woke early, got all layered up because the temperature was going to hover right around freezing for most of the day. Working as an engineer on the Steamer Belle of Louisville got me trained to handle some pretty harsh weather, but this was going to be the opposite spectrum of the heat of being a boiler fireman. I did pretty good, all for the battery powered heated vest my captain had ready for me. My captain is my wife’s best girlfriends man. And he is quite the feller. His boat is a trolling boat, nothing fancy, however we went in style with sandwiches and lots of layers to keep us warm. I didn’t bring coffee was my mistake and he forgetting the hot tea was his. We talked for eight hours or more and got to know each other pretty well. We caught eight lake trout and all of them were massive. (hehe) in eight hours we caught one what he called small, but big enough trout. To me, a lake fisherman from Kentucky used to bass, it was pretty big.

And pretty tasty I might add.

Isolation Report #16 – Hurricane Justice

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Isolation Report #16

Shit, Madrid, Kentucky.

(I have received my mission.)

Report : Sunday the 7th of June at 0800 hours. Watchman, swing shift. Mile Post 604, Louisville wharf. It will be my job to take care of two national monuments. One, the only Steamboat left in working condition from the old steamboat days of American River transportation era and the other The Andrew Broaddus. A Life Saving Station that is older than the U.S. Coast Guard. And no this is not fiction. This is really what I am doing right now.

When I first arrived on April 9th, the Covid- 19 was a new bestselling novel and my town was just starting to lock itself down for what was to come. Our corporate lawyer Governor was keeping the peace everyday at 5 pm. with his Andy Griffith style swagger in the form of a daily job briefing slash safety meeting of a sorts – every body find a place of safety, we will get through this, we will get through this together. I am actually glad, he is bringing a much needed calmer voice than the Tea Party dingbat we had before in Bevin, however, this Democrat we got now is privileged to the gills, comes from a lawyer career political family. He has his work cut out for him now. The streets in Louisville now?

Here is the news report:

Hurricane Justice.

Current location, stalled in Jefferson County, Kentucky

Eye Location – Jefferson Square, Downtown Louisville.

Sustained winds of tear gas.

Shops and homes boarded up.

People running for shelter.

Flying objects in the air.

Confusion Break Bones. (FELA)

and BTW, that song sounds like what is going on in my town, look it up. Confusion Break Bones.

This will be my last report from the isolation of this Rough River Location. I will be back staying at one of the busiest intersections in Louisville. Back to the Gonzo neighborhood of town, back to work and back to …. fuck, I don’t know. And that was the point of coming down here in the first place but back when I came, my whole town was not in the condition that it is now. I can’t wait to roll into town. This place Lothlórien, my family hermitage,is awfully lonesome, and that was the isolation I was looking for.

The plan was to come down here and answer some deep personal questions. Take the time to get up in my head and work on some poetry, music, do some emotional reorganization and get back to work when the Belle called. I did work on the poetry. I did collect and compile my songs. And I have as of this word, written 16,000 some odd words of a small book. It feels like I didn’t really get anything done. Except have a vision quest and a feeling of absolute resolve come over me. I got pretty depressed, smoked too many cigarettes, watched too many crazy movies, drove about 1000 miles of back roads, made friends of a few Mennonites and drank a fifth of Kentucky Tavern to boot.

I did stop mourning and now it’s time to Organize. I spoke to the mourning doves! Listened to the owls. Watched Blue Jays have territory wars. This place is a natural fact! I was inspired somewhat moved watching Mennonites work. Their family structure albeit is patriarchal and religious based is quite beautiful Take the good and leave the bad! I feel like I have gone crazy and my methods are unsound. And yes I do quote from Apocalypse Now a bunch, matter of fact I am listening to the Apocalypse Sessions right now that Mickey Hart from the Grateful Dead recorded for the documentary, Hearts of Darkness. Once a deadhead, always a deadhead. What a long strange two months it has been.

I am, right now, typing like mad, getting this all out before I report for my mission. I feel like I could punch a mirror and collapse on the floor with a bleeding fist – with blood all over my face naked and broken. Naked. This is me, Y’all. I am worried! It’s time to come home! It takes a worried man to sing a worried song. I am worried now. Deeply worried, maybe even troubled by what I am seeing from the news reports and live Facebook vids.

I read somewheres once that people from Kentucky are always in a state of going home. Well, so be it. I talked with an organizer friend from the Bay Area today for a long time and he talked about Gary Snyder and hwis mountain walks. He gave me an account of what is going on out there in Oakland. We talked about our organizing years ago. We talked Railroad Workers United and Dirty Face and all the Hobo stuff and a possible trip out west.

Today, for some reason, I posted a link to a blog-post about the recording I made with my ex-wife, Tapestry. We did a piece that she was inspired to write from a Wendell Berry poem. And yes I talk about Wendell too much and yes he is privileged out the kwazoo and yes I rode in his truck and yes, yes, yes. And who gives a fuck. I do. Partly my insanity, my Balrog so to speak, that I have been fighting, is all that bitterness of not being able to seemingly get any attention for all the work I did when I decided to quit my job and become a river man. I am a river man. Sort of. I come from the Derby City, where women are fast and horses are pretty, can you hear that thunder, you better run you better take cover, because Hurricane Justice is in town. I digress all the goddamn time Y’all.

I looked up Balrog on wikipedia, I donate to wikipedia BTW, double plus good, and I spelled Balrog correctly. Ok, friends, fellow workers, here is the skinny. Before I came down here, I was making these crazy off the cuff videos and in those vids, sometimes R2D2 would make an appearance. I would ask him questions and my roommate Geoff Gage thought that was funny as hell. When I left the ol’ homeplace to come down here, I said out loud, as I turned the key in my art car, my black stallion – “Set the controls for the Degoba system. Time to go visit Yoda.”

My walking stick that I made from a Sassafras tree was in the back seat. I took that walking stick when I first visited Payne Hollow, Harlan Hubbard’s place, and came on down to the lake to find some conclusions – while my town was dealing with the Corona Virus. I needed to break anyway and conditions were favorable. I did fight the Balrog. I am now John Paul the White. Do y’all get it? All this myth and why? I am hoping this writing presents many questions. I hope young people who understand half of what I am saying will inquire within. This is coming to a conclusion. I am coming home. The war for Middle Earth is upon us. I am leaving Lothlorien, a new man. Really. WTF.

I have to be very honest. One of the other reason I came down here was to find my Anna. That would be Harlan’s wife. Anna Hubbard. I didn’t find her. I tried some Facebook dating, and seriously? I had a fun time making Facebook find all the women who list themselves as “Spirtitual” and whoa was that funny. I got a download that mercury was in retrograde and decided to to some thumb yoga and deleted that APP. Whoa. I did have a visitor. Actually, I had a couple friends come down and that is the point … friends. But, the other night, around a star soaked fire, a friend of mine, I met down river, visited the lake and we had a wonderful night. We talked. And that was all.

Of all the women I have flirted with, she is the one who I do get that fuzzy spark feeling about. She is long and tall and half my age and we are getting to be very close friends. Friends. I am going to have to turn off my feelings for her. I guess that was the lesson I got from that Elder/Student experience. Don’t Stand So Close To Me. Oh, God, here comes word association. The Police, fuck the police, they have been running a little hot. I can barely see the road from the heat coming off of it. Now would be a good time to roll a cigarette, adjust my saddle, reach down between my legs and ease the seat back. God I am so Gen-X … I can only hope Hot For Teacher is next.

So, writing in circles and blowing smoke rings.

This Isolation Report is most likely redundant in some places. It is, what it is. And I must mention again that the woman who crashed her X-wing fighter in my Walden Pond so to say, when she visited ,gave some of the best advice about that worry I was having about talking about Wendell Berry too much. She said, “own it.” She said that down river months ago and it has resonated over and over in my head ever since. And I do own it, in a folkways kinda storyteller way. Now I have lots of work to do because of the inspiration taken from those meetings. I feel like those meetings were me, the warrior, meeting with Wendell, the wise elder, and me, trying not to have a Black Elk Speaks Moment. While she was down here, the woman who visited, that young woman who is questioning her religion and at a juncture in her life, while she was here, our meeting by the river was something to take me away from this life journey that I have been on, it was a nice exit so to say from this highway. We talked about dating and she gave me some real talk. Told me to have patience. We did at least come to a small conclusion, or maybe I did .. we are going to have to stop meeting like this.

So in conclusion.

I’ll be home soon. I have a new found resolve to get back involved in some way in the activism department. I was feeling terribly guilty for being down here, 80 miles away from one of the biggest battles of my lifetime in the streets of my hometown. But … and that is a big but. As a seasoned activist, I am not healthy enuf for front line battles. I am an new elder. However, and that is a transition that make me sound educated. Yo Yo Yo! Steal This Book! Share this story. It’s nuts and going around and around – it is full of name dropping, grammatical mistakes and all that shit. It’s kinda country, kinda city. I am in someways a Southern man, and in someways a hippie. I feel as if I have figured some things out and will be returning to my city, to be in. That’s it … we need a be in. Let’s all BE IN. OK, settle down. Just go home John. OK, I am talking to myself. I think I have gone crazy, maybe a little Gonzo.

So in the tradition of 1980’s rap. I am a bad ass MC. I have a million watts of power coming outta my mouth, making all the young ladies want to scream and shout. With a different beat for everyday of the week, so.

In further conclusion. I am a Fat Boy. Gen-X. Covid19 / LOL — WTF – this is NEWSPEAK 1984. Double plus Good –> Madrid, KY —> GDTRFB —> 8 more miles to looieville —> Slipknot —> Drums —> Wendell Berry —> Uncle John’s Band —> Catfish John —> Ginseng Sullivan —> U.S Blues

enc. Sing Me Back Home.

This has been one hell of journey into the self. I do feel I have left a certain Slipknot. I can’t wait to pack up and come home to whatever the hell this is.

See you on the boat!

John Paul Wright

Dead Set on departure.

Madrid, Kentucky

06/02/2020

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Isolation Report #14 – Down By The Green River

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Isolation Report #14

Memorial Day Weekend

Everyone is sleeping. I have moved my base of operations into the forward second deck Captain’s Quarters. If this was a steamboat that is how I would describe where I am at. When I first came down here almost two months ago from being laid off from the Belle of Louisville, I was sleeping in the basement. In the bed that a friend of one of my Fathers used to sleep in. He died, but that will always be “his” place. Like on the Belle, we have the names of some of the previous engineers stenciled on the equipment. My Fathers friend “Ducky,” his spirit still lives here and that bed is his.

So, It got too spooky to sleep there. It was in the basement and sleeping in a basement is kinda already sort of depressing so I needed a change. When I first came down to the Rough River the weather permitted indoor fires. The wood-burning stove is in the basement and I love wood burning stoves so I was sleeping down there in the hull, to stay close to it. My father’s bed is also in the basement, you certainly won’t catch me sleeping there. After deciding to leave the darkness of the hull, I moved to a bed in the Aft of the second deck. In the great room with the French doors that lead out to the hurricane deck. And, well, it’s too bright and open there. Awesome views, big windows that allows for wide views of the tulip poplars that are blooming, however, I needed some darker more confined space. So, I moved to the room that eventually, I guess will be where I am supposed to sleep.

That room, the Captain’s Quarters is where my sister makes her base of operations when she comes down. Right next to the other Captain’s Quarters. I guess my next step should be to move up to the pilot house in the loft. That is where the kids are supposed to sleep, but my cousins sort of make that their place. And can you tell yet? What the hell is John Paul talking about? What are these names he is using, pilot house, captain’s quarters, Aft, Forward, Hurricane Deck? WTH eck.

Folks, I am missing the Steamer Belle of Louisville pretty bad. I got a serious case of the Steamboat Whistle Blues. That’s a John Hartford song, BTW. All those terms are Steam-boating marine language. I was doing a pretty good job hiding away as a midnight watchman on the Ohio River, mile post 604! I have been on a three year mission to sort of disappear from this day and age. This Corona Virus, all this Isolation and Social Distancing is making me want to take the final push. A push into the lost journey, the final stages of the Hero’s Journey, a somewhat Social Suicide into the hearts of darkness so to say. I am ready to just get the hell out of this world and become a metaphor. I chase them, work with them, live in them, I can’t seem to beat the metaphorical baseball team of life. If you can’t beat em’ – Join em! I digress, often, to say the least.

 

My deep isolation was broken this weekend. Both my Dad’s sisters came down and with them were my Uncle Bubba and two grandkids. It has been great to have company. I got a chance to wear my Uncle John hat all weekend. Part of my job on this boat of a sorts has been to give my grownup crew members a break. These folks have already raised half my family and now these grand kids wear them out pretty fast. My two nieces are a hoot. I was more than happy to get the kids out of their hair., We drove around, went fishing, hung around on the balcony. I took the two sisters down to the lake and watched them swim. And that brings back fond memories of when I used to swim in that cove with my brothers and sisters. We spent many a summer in that water. Sometimes so much time that our toe nails would turn orange from being painted by the sandstone muddy bottom. My family is huge and these fine folks represent the other side of the family that has been here every since my Father and his Sister decided that we all needed this place and bought the three acres back in 1979.

This Memorial Day weekend some of the social restrictions were lifted on what has been an interesting several months of confusing mixed messages from way too many sources. What had been a near total lock down of the State of Kentucky, has now turned into a basic free for all of opinion and re-opening of the economy. Restaurants and businesses are allowed to re-open as long as strict guidelines are adhered to. Folks are supposed to be wearing masks, staying six feet away from each other and washing their hands while maintaining the six foot rule. I guess the slogan should be stay six feet away or we will all be six feet in the ground. Folks in town are basically following the rules set by the dot Gov. Folks are growing weary of all this, though. I really do not see folks being able to handle this for very much longer. It is quite absurd, most of the time.

I think folks are growing tired of all the too many Indians part. Meaning, now that this country basically has been pushed into two very far corners, one side has made the other almost The Enemy. And in this so called southern state, pushing folks to one side or the other is a pretty easy thing to do. Kentucky never really took sides in the Great Civil War, so why would it take sides now? Apparently we are leading the country in compliance and recovery, so? Stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Too bad Covid 19 isn’t Duke University cause then we would always remember this time when something whooped our asses. This is U of K country and in some places at certain times, basketball is the religion. So, to Kentucky fans, Covid 19 will now be labeled the Duke19, Chinese, came from those people who eat bats disease. They will hate it and never forget it. Never.

All weekend this place has turned into a destination liken an Easter Sunday packed church. Everybody and their grandma is down at the lake. All weekend echoing through the air has been gasoline engines; boats, ATVs, pontoons, gun shots, automatic gun a rootin’ and a tootin’, speed boats, houseboats, chain saws, cars, trucks, really big trucks pulling boats that cost as much as a small house in the town. Pontoon’s pass by on the river loaded down like a sunset cruise, blasting really cheesy country music. Boat loads of folks, having a good time, with a total disregard to anything with a peace and quiet agenda, have flocked to this Corps of Engineers marvel of a man made lake. To the natives of this place, I guess what we are witnessing is an American Dream colonial weekend occupation reenactment. People from foreign lands have arrived! They bring a lot of money, mind you, but their footprint is something to see. These folks could be bringing with them the dreaded “RONA!” Hmm, can anybody say blankets with smallpox? The blankets they are giving out this weekend are good ol’ American dollars and debit cards. The General is happy. The Dollar General that is.

The interesting part of all that is, how much the Mennonites out on the road have what is being sold in the lyrics of that country music propaganda that is blasting the seams out of the mountains of peace and quiet that normally is what can be found here.. They have the “good ol’ days” narrative thing down pat. What they don’t have, and could care less about, is the narrative of who may or may not be stealing a certain “way of life” away from them. Hell, they took John Prine’s Spanish Pipedream thing seriously a long time ago! The Mennonites that is. Of course, minus the topless lady with something up her sleeve part, mind you. Mennonite strippers, now that’s a thought! Blow up your T.V. Throw away your paper! Move to the country and build you a home! Plant a massive farm and run the thing with a windmill. They live the lyrics of that good ol’ John’s song for sure.

John Prine … bless his heart!

I was called into service this weekend and I gladly came out of hiding for that call, let me tell you. My friend Ron Whitehead called the other day and asked if I would come over to Hartford, KY to sing at his Mother’s 88th birthday party. Hell Yes! I told him. I am a folk musician, griot, storyteller and all that jazz. When I am called into service, I have to go! Responding to the call found me saddling up the painted pony and heading out further west basically walking right into John Prine’s Paradise song. “Daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County, down by the green river.” That place.

Ron’s father was that Daddy. One of many, but seriously, his father worked the drag-line coal machines at Mr. Peabody’s Coal Company. The highlight, well, I can say that there were many highlights at the party! The whole experience of that special day was a highlight, shit! From the second I left Ft. Wright here in Breckenridge County, I was in service of something that is as authentic as any folk musician could ever want to experience. I left and traveled some of the most beautiful back country roads in this part of the State! The name of the road from Leitchfield over to Hartford is called, “The Blue Moon of Kentucky Highway!” My journey to the party took me past Bill Monroe’s ol’ Home place, up and around Jerusalem Ridge, and then all about the fondest parts of Big Mon’s memories. You know the place where he used to sit and listen to the fox hounds, with his Dad in those ol’ Kentucky hills. I am on my way back to the old home, the road winds on up the hill, and there’s no light in the window. You know, that place.

There were certainly lights in Mrs. Whitehead’s eyes as we sat and she shared family pictures of her late husband working Peabody Coal. That was one of the highlights. The strawberry pie and BBQ she sent me home with was another. Hearing her sing my song was another. Watching my buddy Ron out of the corner of my eye was another. I think he is the oldest brother, he certainly had that vibe. I have know Ron Whitehead, “The Outlaw Kentucky Poet” for a long time, we go way back, however, what I was seeing at the party was not at all the Outlaw Poet, I was seeing Ronnie. Ron the older brother with that look in his eye of happiness, joy, and somewhat sadness at who or what was not at that party. Us older boys get that way. A tear in the eye and a lump to swallow. I guess I am an honorary Whitehead now? Fuckin’ A right! You bet your ass I am! You know it?

whitehead

Listen, seriously. I was for an afternoon, in that Paradise song. I was there! And I knew where I was going when I l got out of the boat and saddled my raging black stallion and headed west in folk music service. I was in a hot garage singing Bluegrass music with a family that lived that song to the fullest and were celebrating the birthday of the Queen, I was in heaven! Singing with the Angel Band. I was again, like when I was on the Joe Hill Tour, not just singing some folk music, I was part of the story. Part of how this heritage is passed on, passed down. Griot work. When Ron called and asked me to drive over he assured me I would get fed out of the deal. Ha! The fucking BBQ came from a food truck from over in Rosine, KY. Rosine, Kentucky, the home-place of Bill “Big Mon” Monroe! Amen.

Well, the kids are waking up. I hear the bang bang bang of my little barefoot nieces running all about the house. Soon my Aunts and Uncle will be leaving and total isolation will return. I will take off my Uncle John hat and go back to John Paul the guy who is kinda like Harland Hubbard, mixed with a little bit of Wendell Berry, add a ½ cup of Fela Kuti and ¼ cup of John Hartford. Mix the wet and dry ingredients and bake at 400 degrees turning until golden brown. Serve with a side of Hummus and African Djembe.

This isolation life is wild! Too thin to navigate and too thick to plow! I am steam-boating again, but, my God I am having a time! Oh, I forgot. Add ½ cup of Anne and Carl Braden a pinch of Woody Guthrie to taste and serve in a big Dust Bowl. Feeds many. Leftovers never spoil. One man gathers what another man spills. I digress, Often. I got the U.S. Blues! I am Catfish John signing off! You have been listening to, clear channel 650 WSM brought to you by the L&N don’t stop here anymore! Happy Memorial Day, Fellow Workers!

John Paul Wright

Madrid, Kentucky

05/25/2020