Testing honesty . . .

It's the Satyr's day . . .

And it's the birthday of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Born in 1803 Boston, the essayist, lecturer, philosopher, abolitionist, and poet led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century.

Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's May and the nightingales are returning to England still claiming their status as among the most endangered species. They don't visit us here in North or South America, leaving us with memories from those who've experienced them.

Speaking of music and songbirds...

Bob Dylan was born yesterday (Friday) in 1941 Duluth, Minnesota. At 83 and still going strong, Dylan is considered to be one of the greatest songwriters in history, and a major influence in popular culture over his 60-year, Nobel Prized career. His archive, “The Bob Dylan Center – a joint project of the Kaiser Family Foundation and the University of Tulsa – is here in downtown Tulsa, right adjacent to the Woodie Guthrie museum. Come Visit. Good eats, great bars, art deco, amid the Greenwood historical district...what's not to like?

And, speaking of most-worthy-old-fart poet/songsters, Neil Young (now 78) and Crazy Horse (how to age ghosts?) returned to live power concert form in NYC this past week... with a peek over the horizon, where “There comes a time...”

. . . I’ve played for 50,000 people and I’ve played for 50 people and I can tell you that it is harder to play for 50 people. 50,000 people have a singular persona, not so with 50. Each person has an individual, separate identity, a world unto themselves. They can perceive things more clearly. Your honesty and how it relates to the depth of your talent is tried. The fact that the Nobel committee is so small is not lost on me. – Bob Dylan, from The 2016 Nobel Prize Banquet Speech.

Previous
Previous

Coming through the rye . . .

Next
Next

Full dark moon . . .