Somewhere along the line I decided that it's better not to rock some boats. Now I find that you have to do the right thing. Always. No exceptions. If your heart is pure you will always find the true path.
Pray for peace. Love with all you've got.
Sometimes I find it beyond my comprehension that a force like Elvis ever walked on the planet. I'm the first to dismiss celebrity culture and, yet, surely he was something different from the rest of us.
Okay, so I'm trying to be a grownup and trying to make a living. I'm selling real estate. This British kid, Pete Flynn, gets pushed off on me. He's come over on holiday and thinks he should move here and open a bar on the beach. I don't know any better and next thing you know, he's staying with me and we're deciding that he needs to be right down the street on Davis Island. Well, I'm still here on Davis Island and Peter is back home in Sheffield. His heart is still here, though.
Guns blazing, fringe flying I duck under storefront awnings to keep my hair dry. What about my powder, my dreams?
When mom brought home the 45 of Letter From Home on King it quickly became my favorite. I had no idea what Roy Brown was going on about but I knew there was something dirty about it. I liked it.
My pal, Ed Brown, hoarded protein powder. He explained that once society toppled that obviously the canned dust would be the only means of exchange. He might have had a bit more credibility if his refrigerator hadn't been full of giant containers of mustard and his closets teeming with coat hangers. He was an artist and, as he was quick to point out, a genius.
None of the pictures of Elvis are ever the same after he lost his mom. Ever notice? I'm lucky. My mom passed away just over a year ago and I had her for a good long time.
Being the hotshot never appealed to me as a kid. Oh, I idolized Big Daddy but I aspired more to Starvin' Marvin Schwartz. There was no bigger Elvis fan. Ever. I suppose I pictured myself more in the role of Gene Vincent. No, Benny Joy.
Seems that I've made a conscious decision to stay at home instead of touring so that I can spend time with Jamaica. I just got home from a week on the road and it took an obvious toll on her. She's seven now and in the prime of her life. If I looked at the situation as some kind of trap or limitation it would make me angry or, at least, anxious.
Well, my Oklahoma high is wearing off and I'm settling into the reality of everyday life. It rains every day and I worry about the craziest things. Mostly other people. I see paradise just around the corner and it tortures my soul to see folks struggling. There's enough of everything for everybody and love would seem to be the obvious means of exchange. I love you all. I guess I'm really rich.
Goober and Floyd are working on a flathead six that they somehow got into the sheriff's office and I'm running through my song for tonight's show at the Crystal Theater in Okemah. I guess it will take us about an hour and a half to get there from Tulsa.
Never a day off, I'm always at work. I wish I played five nights a week, five hours a night. I don't. Sometimes I only play out once or twice a month. Starvation is always in the mix. The songs, though, are always in the works. Why do I do this? I'm not asking you. I'm asking me.
Once I wanted to be Hank Williams. Then, after periods of James Dean, Parnelli Jones, Screamin' Jay Hawkins and Gorgeous George, I settled for Ronny Elliott. It's easier. A whole lot easier.
After returning home from a week of love in Oklahoma I find venomous blather about the Trayvon Martin- George Zimmerman case all around me. I figure that hate is kinda' like mildew. Shine a light on it for long enough and it fades away. Sorry to say that it always seems to come back.
When it comes down to the wire I guess I really have only one fear. Loneliness. I mean I don't want to die and I don't want to hurt. I don't want to ever have a root canal. The only thing that really stirs the creeping unknown in my soul is being alone.
My flight to Memphis leaves a little after 5:00 in the morning. We're driving to Tulsa from there and then on to Okemah for the Woody Guthrie Festival. I love to play and, of course, I'm looking forward to seeing all my old friends. Truth is, though, I hate to leave. It just gets harder all the time to say goodbye to Jamaica and Angel. "I'll be right back," just doesn't cut it. They put up with me and I love them with all my heart.
Seems that meditation is really nothing more than being really still and really quiet so that you can hear your heart. I've followed such a strange, twisted path and, truth is, I should probably have been still and quiet a little more often.
I s'pose it's fantastic for the ones who find Jesus on their tacos or a pumpkin in the garden that looks suspiciously like the buddha. Seems to me, though, that the really lucky ones are those of us who see the miracles everywhere. The grains of sand on the beach could keep me fascinated for hours. Don't get me started about shooting stars, puppy breath or a baby's laughter. What about rock'n'roll or the sensation of romance?
Yeah, I remember when we got word that Berry Oakley had died. It was a year after Duane had been killed. Both on their bikes in Macon. Berry had worshipped Duane Allman. I had been working to get Berry a solo deal as a singer/songwriter when he called me and told me to hold off. They had started a band and he was really excited about it.