discovering leon russell

I was browsing around the Amazon mp3 store through the $5 albums, listening to random artists, when I stumbled upon Leon Russell. Apparently he's a legend in the country/folk rock world, so I can't believe I only found about him now. I love the simplicity and stripped down, rawness of folk rock. Anyways, before I get too hipster on this blog, I wanted to share this crazy good performance by Leon, Ray, and Willie of Leon Russell's "Song for you". It's amazing how genuine Ray Charles sings.



You taught me precious secrets of the truth witholding nothing
You came out in front and I was hiding
But now I'm so much better and if my words don't come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding

I love you in a place where there's no space or time
I love you for in my life you are a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song for you

so these jeans

So these jeans he had on didn’t fit like they used to. They were faded and there was a frayed patch of denim on the right pant-leg where the knee likes to settle. He didn’t like their new feel. It was that damned washing machine, commercial and economical. It was too simple, and small, he could only fit half of his hamper.

So these dang jeans. He looked at them with surprising contempt. When he tried them on at the store they were so perfect. The wash was dark, a pristine dark wash of neatly folded and sowed denim. There was a guarantee on those jeans. A promise that they would be more than satisfactory to him. He looked at himself from the waist down, following the inseam down to the floor. A great pair of jeans, what a great wash, dark, perfect, a really good wash.

His jeans. He rustled his shaggy hair, the oil lingering on his fingertips. His fingertips rubbing the patch. His knee, alive, living, breathing beneath more than satisfactory material. The oil remained on the imperfection, the soft breach of fabric poisoning the assurance of quality and ruining his opulence.

He took in a final breath through his cigarette and killed it on the patch, thoroughly rubbing in the ashes with scorn. He violently threw the cigarette to the cement, his index and middle finger liberated. They tore through the poison and ripped those dang jeans, that damned washing machine.

He stepped on the lifeless cigarette and squinted his eyes. He had to get another really good wash now, he had to.

a self-portrait

Inside of the shoebox was a spider. The spider had only known the shoebox, and the shoebox had never opened itself for the spider. The spider thrived in the shoebox, relished in its efficacies and materials, until one day when the spider saw that the shoebox was a shoebox. The spider moved toward the edge of the shoebox and pushed its delicate body against the cardboard. The spider felt a sensation and was suddenly overwhelmed with knowledge and curiosity as it saw the gauntness of thriving and relishing. The spider knew, believed, understood that there was something unimaginable beyond the cardboard, the only thing that could bring genuine fulfillment, meaning, purpose. The efficacies and materials scoffed at the spider and began to stifle it. The spider struggles. The spider believes. The spider is still in the shoebox.