A little less cranky today. No more news for me until the week is past. Hillbilly music for the bird, coffee for me, and the world gets set aright. Most of my old man complaints are resolved this late summer morning other than mild wheezing from some sort of nature respiratory attack. But the misuse of steroids quickly takes care of that ailment. It is a peaceful moment, and a rare treat of Pachelbel’s canon arrives in the midst of the bluegrass fiddling. Odd how that simple yet elegant piece seems to cut through the political resentment that I have toward so many.
I am not much of a music lover. I really have no music soul. Not one ounce. So naturally, I have a lot of music lovers as friends who send me audio clips of meaningful lyrics which I rarely play. I think that poets and writers of music share much with politicians. They’ll tell you a tall story to make a point. Lovingly, of course. Sometimes I just don’t want to put the effort into catching a metaphor.
And the music segues into Shenandoah, and my mood shifts into the heart aching loneliness of the song, and my mind goes to the long and largely bitter panorama of mankind’s life. We birth. We breed. We protect. We die. If we are famous, we become footnotes. If we aren’t, we are forgotten.
And so it goes from peevishness to maudlin.