Ever have a Sunday wherein the weight of the whole insane world comes crashing into yr left temple, spilling and fomenting and frothing the chaos of life in modern society right into your cranium when all you really wanted to do was hang out with yr family by the fire pit, watching cicada husks glow? Yeah? Me too.
Luckily, my best friend Paul taught me how to listen to George Harrison. "My Sweet Lord" takes me back to that day and reminds me of where my head is supposed to be. "He was actually the most spiritually committed of the four" Paulie said to me, slipping "All Things Must Pass" into the tape deck one golden sunlit afternoon in Boulder, Colorado.
I've sat at the feet of a lot of golden, sparkley individuals who know big shite and/or are supposed to know big shite about human consciousness. Art is what brings it all back home for me, though. I'll take an album over a mantra any day of the week. I'll take a cicada husk over the chaos. And I'll take frail effacement over allegiances. Friendship over acquaintanceship. Thorns over roses. George over John.
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