2003-08-19 10:17 a.m.

I try to stay in the moment—something which helps keep me happy. But, lately all I can think about is how I want be done getting ready for Burning Man and I just want to be at Burning Man.

I have been listening to music by Del McCoury, Doc Watson, and Mac Wiseman—Grand Ole Opry era bluegrass. Where has this music been all my life? It sounds like a bunch of old drunk hicks with splinters in their fingers and big moustaches, the kind who are drunk a lot but have been playing guitar for 50 years and no amount of intoxication could veil their astounding talent. They sing songs about pretty girls and the moon and standing by the sides of caskets and darlings and have songs with the word rag in the title. Behind their harmonized crooning I can hear their fingers buzzing like hummingbirds over the time–worn fretboards of their oxidized old dobros and Gibson acoustics. They sing about simpler times, and I can't help but wish I was there with them in that time between the Wild West and the Information Age, drinking brown liquor and singing songs and endlessly searching for my darlin'.


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