The October Game

In this past Sunday's Johnson City Press was an article about a man named Bill Counts and his "October Game." Counts is a painter with a day job, and the past few Octobers he has played this game: he paints a picture every day of the month and puts it on his website (http://www.billcounts.com/), along with a caption about the picture's creation, which caption might also stray into musings on art, culture and so on. The paintings are created each day in anywhere from 30 minutes to four hours, depending on how much time he has that day. Most of them, he says, are awful, but be that as it may, each painting must be put up on the Internet for all to see (for better or worse).

Because I think this is an interesting idea, I'm going to try something similar. Instead of paintings, however, I'm going to try and write a poem or some short prose piece and post it every day of October. This seems to me like something I won't be able to do, but I'm going to give it a whirl anyway. Counts apparently paints October scenes such as leaves, pumpkins and black cats, so I intend to do the same with my writing. I might write about the October leaves or the October moon, about Columbus Day, about Halloween, about something that happened that October day. We'll see.

When I was a songwriter, October was always an inspiring month, a time for reflection, and many of my favorite songs were written during that time. The month has certainly remained for me a time of deep reflection, but, again, we'll see if it remains a time of inspiration.

My rules: 1) write something complete every day, trying to keep the writing more or less related to October and autumn; 2) try to provide some short description of each piece of writing; 3) post this to the blog by midnight each calendar day.

I begin tomorrow!

"Maybe Montana"

Last Friday morning I woke up to a beautiful day after having, the evening before, attended a wonderful musical performance by Dougie MacLean in Asheville. I felt good that morning and posted on Facebook that I "almost" felt like writing a song. One of my friends in the Department of Literature and Language responded, "Ooh! Write one about me!" Well, I'm afraid that "almost" was as close as I got (sorry, Dr. Cajka), but I started thinking about my songwriting days and all the people that swirled around my life back then and ended up in my songs. I wrote entire songs about some people. I wrote verses or lines about others. I wrote some people into the songs as just passing images.

Then I got to thinking that I have no certain knowledge of my ever having appeared in somebody else's song. But I like to think that I made an appearance, as one of those "passing images" mentioned above, in the song of an old friend of mine in Nashville.

When I was a songwriter in Music City, especially in those years when checks from my publisher provided enough money for a single man to be somewhat unfettered, I used to take off to Montana every chance I got. I loved it there—Missoula in particular. At some point—I don't remember exactly when—I became enamored with a woman I heard perform at the Bluebird Café. She was one of the best songwriters I'd come across, and somehow, shy as I was, we became friends. Although our relationship sometimes leaned in the direction of becoming more than friends, it never seemed right, so we decided not to go there. And we didn't. I wrote her into a few of my songs from that period, and that was that.

One day not long ago, I was walking in the park near my house, my mp3 player blaring in my ears. A favorite song by this former female friend played, and I listened as I walked. The song is about a woman trapped in her life and yearning for escape. As you might expect, near the end of the song, she just leaves, and neither the singer nor anybody else in the song seems to know where she went. The lyric at that point muses, "Maybe New York, maybe LA, / Maybe Montana . . . she never did say." As small and quickly passing as it is, I like to think that I inspired that "Maybe Montana" phrase. That doesn't seem too much to ask for all that I've written about other people.

But I'll never ask my friend about that phrase. She might just laugh and say I had nothing to do with it. She might just laugh and say it sounded better and more romantic than "Maybe New Hampshire" or "Maybe Wisconsin" or "Maybe Chicago" or "Maybe Atlanta." I couldn't take that. Not for a few minutes, at least (after which I would probably be fine).

A Little Jon Stewart for Mark and jb?

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Meet the Depressed
http://www.thedailyshow.com/
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A Poem by Ranier Marie Rilke

Go to the Limits of Your Longing

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

More of My Favorite Terry Jones

Terry Jones and Terry Jones

What is Christ-ian about this Terry Jones?

I like this Terry Jones much better!

Hmmm

We're told that Jesus was a carpenter. Would he choose to attend a Carpenters for Christ event at a local Baptist church?