But there is also always some reason in madness.
Friedrich Nietzsche
I'm throwing my pen in the ring as it were to write daily insights of all sorts, stolen bits of conversation, jokes, laughs,the comedic, the sad, the mundane--all fair game. I'm joining ranks with the Blog365. Come on, we'll all travel this road together...
When the Free Bird crashed I was in high school in a small town in North East Ohio. I never dreamed at that time that I would ever find myself having Thanksgiving dinner with the family at the table of the youngest brother, Johnny VanZant a little over a decade later.
It seemed surreal to visit the mausoleum in Orange Park, and sit on the bench that Charlie Daniels had inscribed with a poem as a tribute.
Johnny had just released Brickyard Road and was trying to decide if he would form the Lynyrd Skynyrd Tribute Band. I had taken a job with his first wife, Cindy as a window decorator at the area malls.
Johnny signed the deal of course, and his life was forever changed in ways none of us could ever have foreseen. But crash survivor Billy Powell signed on to play the music we loved so much, and we got to enjoy him a while longer. I chose the tune above so you can see a little more of the classic keyboard player
Save me a ticket on the other side, Billy, and our condolences to the family and the band.
And you can always come back next monday.
The first time I saw this video on MTV years ago I was disturbed by the imagery and practically ran out to get the CD. The song itself triggers less than pleasant memories of home. I think I somehow hope to be absolved of them the longer I listen to the music. So far it's been like trying to view a train wreck through a mirror.
Years later I see that I identified with something of the violence in Ireland. Being half Irish myself. This has become one of my daughter's favorite tunes although I can't imagine why. We did our best to prevent her being in an environment like this, and succeeded so far.
Does this clip move you in any way?
You wonder sometimes how you survive some things in life. When you look back at the wreckage of your soul, if it was someone else you think, "I'd feel something more about this."
But it's not someone else's life. It's mine. And I think of how my shock meter is so bent, that the things that should shock me don't. That I talk about a relative's attempted suicide like milk is two bucks a gallon surprises some.
People don't always know how you got to be where you are today. If you're blond or beautiful, if you're smiling and relatively happy, if you are successful or seemingly so, people may even think life's been easy.
and nothing could be farther from the truth.
Thank God for guardian angels.
Does anyone ever really get used to being edited? Or do we just thicken our hides put our crash helmets on and plunge ahead... head first, at the speed of light?
Why do we do this?
Is it the nature of the writer to write? To be heard? To be understood?
At one time or another, I have wanted all of those things. It is always touching to me to not only be understood, but to touch the heart of the one who reads, to haunt the minds of others with the stories that haunt me. To leave my questions in the hearts of someone in whom they just might sprout and grow. To hear the words, "You moved me, that was brilliant. Great story."
I hear this song Telescope Eyes by Eisly when I'm being edited. I try to remember that the editor's job is to clarify what I have left muddy, to peer into the dark corners that I have painted over.
Even when it hurts. Especially if it hurts.
Kudos to Elizabeth Oliver of Rambler for shining the light where I didn't want to look, so that in the process I can become a better writer. I believe every great editor is a great writer.