Between Birds and Stars

Have I ever given you a business card?

I didn't think so.

As nearly as I can recall, my first was our band calling card for The Raveons. My work experience up till then had consisted of bagging groceries and scooping mud out of the hulls of barges. Neither of those endeavors required much in the way of marketing. I was seventeen years old when we had these printed up. Maybe the fact that I still have some around will give you some idea of my self-promotional skills.

The next batch that I can find, poking through the treasures here, is from my next band, The Outsiders. Now we probably managed to hand out a few more of these. In fact, I'm not really sure that this is the first version of OS cards. Nevertheless, it's not time to re-order even though it's been about fifty five years since the last run.

After that there were occupations that demanded business cards, i.e. real estate, environmental protection, mortgage, and those that didn't- writer, hot sauce bottler and gadabout.

It occurs to me, finally, that my profession, if in fact I had a profession, is Ronny Elliott. I'm just no good at preparation, practice, rehearsal, posing, promoting. Others may simply refer to me as lazy. I don't really have the gumption to get up and argue with them.

Over the years I have been close to wealthy and it was fun. I've been poor more often. It wasn't too bad. If you talk enough, something's bound to rhyme. Voila! I'm a poet. I suppose I'm something of a philosopher, too. I seem to think a good bit as I sit around and, lord knows, I talk about it. I preach. You've probably noticed. Hasn't paid very well and I'm not sure I've comforted many folks, much less saved anyone.

Today, I serve as proof that some force will keep most fools from starving or freezing. It's up to us to help those others.

Rubbing Shoulders With Saints

Having rubbed shoulders with so many saints and having danced with countless angels, maybe I can answer some of your questions.

You're probably wondering how to find them. They'll find you. 

Likely as not, you won't have a clue that you're in some holy presence while engaged. 

Oh, they'll screw up. Everybody does. I've heard that Mother Teresa told the bawdiest jokes in Calcutta.

It's all about the love, not perfection. At least not "perfection" as described in your books and your temples. 

I saw that Elon Musk tweeted that he's getting rid of all of his stuff. It was never gonna fit through the eye of that needle.

All you need is love.

Once The Luster Is Lost

Well sir, would it sound arrogant to say that the therapists like me? I've always thought that it was because I'm easy. Ask me a question, I'll give you an answer.

Now, I realize that I'm probably making myself sound a little bit crazy here. Therapists? Plural?

See the women in my life generally decide that I could use some help. Honestly, who don't?

The scenario usually runs along these lines: A well-meaning woman concludes that if I weren't crazy, I would be acceptable as a partner. Without much work, the professional determines that I am, indeed, crazy. Everybody's happy at this juncture. I already had my suspicions. The well-meaning woman feels validated and the therapist has finished the important work of shining light on darkness.

Of course it never stops here.

We should  probably see if we might figure out what the well-meaning woman is doing in the company of a crazy man. It's usually the beginning of the end about this time.

The pattern has the women concluding that the therapist "likes me more." I've always thought that the fact that I will tell anybody anything has just made for easy work for the therapist and, to an extent, I believe that's true.

It occurs to me now, though, that my intact sense of wonder has probably worked in my favor all along. Now, that does sound arrogant. Would it be better to describe myself as unsophisticated? Naive?

My point is that I have managed to hang onto all of the magic. I believe in it all.

Thank you Carolyn, Karen, Mike. I can't remember that guy's name in North Carolina but thank you, too. To the women- I probably should have just told you.

Acceptance Speech

Well, sir, I owe it all to Sunday school lessons, the 3 Stooges and psychedelic drugs. This old world is full of false starts, dead end patterns and empty promises. Inside, I've got memories of banana pudding, puppy breath and that feeling that comes from slow dancing. 

Don't waste your time searching for truth. Here it is.

While the saints gossip about the end, let's celebrate. It ain't ever gonna get better than this. Call someone that you need to tell that you love them. Laugh. Try to remember your first dirty joke.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Slow Baby Bouncer

Those vibrations outside the range of human hearing. I'll bet that's where the most beautiful music lies. Stuck with these limited senses, we don't just strut the planet. We plunder arrogantly, as though we own the joint.

We cobble together books to justify our actions and claim that God gave them to us.

Pardon my irreverence here- She might have made the seas and the mountains and the stars. She didn't write any book. 

Spend a little more time with the golden rule and a little less time on obscure verse and chapter describing revenge and dominance. Don't preach to me about love. Love.

Board Up The Windows

Sometimes I'm glad that I don't have a photographic memory. Everything from my past is organized, neatly, into little treasure chests that make up who I am.

Now, when I say "neatly" I don't mean categorized in any fashion that would make any sense to anyone else. Dogs and cats and guinea pigs are mixed right in there with Grandma and President Kennedy and Howdy Doody.

Somehow, over time, in my mind, everybody was nice to me. 

Miss Gamon, my first grade teacher, came to visit my hospital room when I had my tonsils out. She sat by my bedside and held my hand while I ate sherbet. She told me that I was the smartest person in the class and that everybody missed me. My mom believed it of course. I was just thrilled to have sherbet and attention.

Elvis was nice to me. No matter how long I dwell on it, I can't find anything that he had to gain from it.

This world is in turmoil today like nothing I have seen in this lifetime. I'm filing away all the good memories that I can find. It may be a good time to make some of your own.

I love you.

Saw 'em In Half

Well, I'll swanee, the lessons surely come slowly. To me, anyway. It suddenly occurs to me that all sounds are music. The musician is the one who weeds them out and strings them together for the rest of us. If it's done well, it's a hit! Pythagoras and Lady Gaga and Willie Nelson are fine examples.

All of the light and dark are art once the painter wrangles the right proportions of each.

Words? I'm gonna say that they're just made-up sounds that we've put together to communicate ideas. The poet's job is to wrestle them into truth for the masses.

Me? I'm a loveologist. I was never any good at it but I study hard.