Lie to Me is an absolutely fabulous CD. I believe all songs on the CD are Jonny Lang originals except Good Morning LittleSchool Girl, written by Sonny Boy Williamson around 1937, and Matchbox, written by Ike Turner.
There is also another Matchbox, written by Carl Perkins: "I'm sitting here wondering, will a matchbox hold my clothes." I think the Beatles recorded this, along with other earlier artists. I always thought the words were, "I'm sitting here worrying, with a matchbox hole in my clothes." I always wondered if a matchbox hole was a hole as big as a matchbox!
Of his recent album, Turn Around, Lang says "With this album I want to focus, more than ever before, on my purpose in life. I've been so incredibly blessed. My wife and I just had our fifth anniversary. I get to do what I love for a living. But it wasn't so long ago that I was spiraling downward in a lot of ways, until God touched my life and set me on the right track. I feel a huge debt to give glory back to Him for everything He has done for me. It's the least I can do."
"I understand that not everybody believes as I do," Lang says, "which is fine. I just want to sing about what's going on in my life and let people make up their own minds about that."
I haven't heard Turn Around yet, and can't wait to do so! One of my favorite musicians, Buddy Miller, accompanies Jonny on the song On That Great Day.Buddy and Julie Millerare indescribably talented artists. The first time I heard them perform was at City Stages a few years ago.
Guster will also be there, and if we're lucky, they'll perform All the Way Up to Heaven, the sweetest song you'd ever want to hear. This song brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it, and so far everyone I ask has had the same experience.
My sister tagged me to list 15 books that will always stick with me--but I'm supposed to do it in 15 minutes. I'll give it a try. I'll list them as they come to mind, not in any kind of best-to-worst order.
1. Firmin: the Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife, by Sam Savage 2. A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole 3. A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean 4. In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, by Peter Matthiessen 5. A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, by Ishmael Beah 6. Ghosts of Tsavo, by Philip Caputo 7. Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me, by Richard Farina 8. Dracula, by Bram Stoker 9. Cold Mountain, by Charles Frazier 10. The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran 11. The Peaceable Kingdom, by Jan de Hartog 12. The Book of the Hopi, by Frank Waters 13. Black Elk Speaks, by John G. Neihardt 14. Ishi, the Last of His Tribe, by Theodora Krober 15. Karla Faye Tucker Set Free: Life and Faith on Death Row, by Linda Strom
I didn't time it. I think this took me more than fifteen minutes. I recommend all of these.
They were married. The wedding march ushered them briskly out of the candle-lit church into the ecstatic sunlight. Rice and birdseed were thrown. Brown sparrows and gray doves skittered along the warm sidewalk amid the feet of exuberant guests. A solitary squirrel ventured down the trunk of a massive oak tree to peer at the festive crowd, as Albert Slater led his bride to the car parked at the curb. That was on Saturday. Now it was Wednesday. Marissa was still trying to get used to the fact that she was Mrs. Albert Slater. She thought she might never get used to the fact that she was Mrs. Albert Anybody. Albert was such a difficult name to get used to; so old fashioned and stiff. She would have preferred a Daniel, a Greg, or a Jason. Albert was a stuffy, dusty sounding name. But here he was. Thank goodness he didn't look like an Albert. They stood together on the hotel balcony overlooking the endless view of mountains piled one over another into the blue distance. Sun struck his clean thin face, causing him to squint as he smiled at her. She could see scattered prisms of refracted sunlight in his hair. Suddenly the thought struck her that he seemed to actually emanate light. That's it, she thought. He looks electrical. She continued to watch him, the sunlight firing off his face, his eyes, his red hair; then she had to explain why she laughed. "It's because you look electrical, Albert, like a volt of electricity. Like a watt. Like a million watts. Like a bolt of lightning tearing across the sky, like the king of all lightning and electrical impulses." Albert had no objection to being the King of Electrical Impulses, and since it amused her, he let her fashion a costume for him out of coat-hangers, plastic dry-cleaner bags, shoulder pads snipped from articles of clothing, a clear plastic belt strapped diagonally across his chest. "Wild King of Electricity," she addressed him that night inside their institutionally impersonal honeymoon suite. "Your name henceforth shall be Miraculous Voltus Electricalus!" And she laughed and laughed. And he laughed too, watching his new bride apply red lipstick lightning streaks to her fresh just-married face and along both arms from shoulder to wrist. He pranced about the room, uninhibited for the first time in his life, striking poses he deemed to be thoroughly electrical, as she continued drawing red zig-zags of lightning from her thighs to her ankles and from her breasts, downward across her stomach and abdomen. She moussed her blonde hair into two huge spikes that actually looked quite like horns, and she sprayed them with hair spray until they radiated stiffly from her head. Then she fashioned a costume for herself, folding many sheets of white writing paper into fans which she tucked into her bra and under the straps and around the elastic of her bikini panties. Then she encircled herself with a long, heavy-duty extension cord which she ripped from the lamps on each side of the king-sized nuptial bed. From this, she dangled her curling iron, her hair dryer, his electric razor. "My electrical darling!" he exclaimed, as if he had recognized her for the first time. "Yes," she answered. "I am known as Strata Illuminata." And she danced for him, a frantic, twitching pavane with many starts and stops, like an electric light switch flipped on and off. Thus, when they came back from their honeymoon, they possessed a private world, inhabited entirely by electrical lovers of wattage. No one else guessed that there was such a world, and that of course made it all the more amusing. When in the company of relatives and friends, often they looked shyly at each other when anyone mentioned power surges, or they winked furtively across the table when someone predicted an electrical storm. They felt, even more than most young married couples, special, set apart, conspirators. Mythological. They had a nice little home, a renovated 1940s bungalow on Southside. There were tall trees in the back and thick, luxurious green grass in the front. The young couple enjoyed lying on their backs on that verdant green carpet at night, watching the stars and talking of the distant electrical galaxy from which they came. Soon they began wrapping themselves in long strings of Christmas lights, augmenting their electrical costumes with thousands of tiny luminous bulbs. His were multicolored; hers were clear. They purchased more and more extension cords, stringing them together end-to-end, so that the two glowing, frolicsome beings of enlightenment could run about across the lawn each night, sparkling and volatile, dancing dances of astonishing incandescence on the dark summer grass. Strata Illuminata teased and tempted her mythological hero, Voltus Electricalus, as she romped across the dew covered lawn. The fescue glittered under her feet, reflecting the brilliant beams cast by thousands of tiny lights adorning her otherwise naked body. V.E. laughed lustily and gave chase. "Come to me, my flashy seductress!" he called, pursuing his flickering loved one. "Illuminata! Illuminata!" She squealed and threw herself into his arms, giving little thought to the crackling of tiny bulbs. They bought only the kind that would continue to burn if one burned out. The thunder of the approaching storm was muffled by the shouts and laughter of the radiant lovers who were now entangled in their multiple extension cords as they thrashed about in fervent embrace. The immense bolt of lightning ripped out of the turbulent sky and made contact with their many-lighted bodies. And that was the end of that marriage.
"A possum by any other name would still be a possum." William Shakespeare
Here at The Painted Possum, I'll talk about literature, fiction, poetry, art, music, Native American issues, family, geneology, POSSUMS and other wildlife. From time to time, I'll post my original stories, poetry and artwork. These are copyrighted and can't be used without my permission.
Sharing the adventures of Lily Claire and Willie T. as they discover the magic and mystery in the woods of Moonlight Ridge has been a great pleasure.
The second book of the four volume Moonlight Ridge Series is on the way, with some unique surprises. Characters from the past are lingering in the lonely, deserted places where Lily Claire and Willie T. spend their autumn days, and a few encounters with spirits on the mountain will lead the two adventurers into haunted, perilous situations. Watch here for upcoming announcements.