Sitting here thinking to myself.
Funny how some folk can pick up a guitar and it’s soulful.
Some pick it up and apologise for themselves.
It’s Friday.
The rain is falling softly outside my window.
I’ve got tea,
steroids for a chest infection,
paracetamol,
and a nice little temperature running.
And Johnny Cash playing the old classics
through to the American Albums.
Long Black Veil.
25 minutes to go.
A man and his guitar and that voice.
When I was young, I used to go into town with Stuart and Dave.
Stuart’s dad up front driving, and every time:
“Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”
Full journey. Those songs, Johnny Cash and his band. Boom-chika-boom.
And I’d be thinking, what the fuck is this? I need to hear more of this. From that day to today.
You find it on a journey when you’re twelve.
Or in a taxi driver’s cassette.
Or because some bastard wouldn’t shut up about it.
Not because someone in a room full of nodding heads
told you it was required.
They wear an executioner’s smile.
I never listened to those people.
Rain’s still falling,
I write in my notebook.
Reminder to self.
Don’t outsource your soul.
