UNC basketball: Process vs Result

There will be some who appreciate the following thoughts. There will be many who don't.

Who am i to have the audacity to suggest these things? A fan, just like you. Read it or not. Up to you.

1. Too many fans are acting as if what has transpired this season has been a personal insult. That's  absurd. Everyone involved in this equation: players, staff and fans had strong expectations, some of which were based on the past. My own view continues to be that given time Roy and his staff will help the players evolve individually and as a team.

The fair-weather Tar Heel fans are usually the least informed, and the first to toss blame hand grenades.

At this point, with the situation as it is, one is either on the UNC bus or not. 

Quit whining. 

Support the team.

I have seen suggestions that UNC simply forfeit the season because that poster does not want to watch the carnage.

Grow a damn pair.

There are players on the current team who will be on the roster next season. They are going to get more experience than anyone imagined this year. If one looks only at the results, it will be a bleak season. BUT, if one pays attention to process, you will most assuredly see glimpses, some of them sustained longer than others, of what the future holds.

i would remind the UNC fanatics that Carolina Basketball is an element in your life, not at all your total life. It is a diversion more than anything. Too many fanatics base their existence on the physical efforts of kids who are not old enough to vote.

Get some perspective. 

Yes, the team is struggling. 

I would suggest the fanatics ask themselves, other than posting Pity Party Snark, how much effort they are PERSONALLY putting into the development of the team?

I already know that answer. So do you.

I have seen too many posts addressing one of UNC’s worst seasons and the beating Clemson at home streak, as if one was yet another personal insult, and that the Clemson streak was something they themselves had worked to maintain. And by posting this crap, even more pressure is put upon players who know they’re struggling. 

You don’t need to remind them.

2. We've seen injuries decimate the football program during Fedora's last two seasons, as well as do a pretty strong job on UNC's secondary this season. UNC basketball has been fortunate the past few seasons, but injuries happen. And they don't necessarily happen because of the workouts, the brand of shoe, the strength and conditioning coach, or angry gods. 

I have loved UNC basketball most of my life, having moved to Chapel Hill at a very young age. I did all of my schooling in Chapel Hill through graduate school. Woolen Gym, however, was where I “studied” the most.

I hate seeing the team struggle. Just like you.

But UNC has always been my team. That will not change.

The road ahead is uncertain. That is a fact. What we think and say as fans has zero influence on the outcome of the games. But that does not mean we should bicker and blame, rather than applaud the tiny successes that this team will struggle to attain.

Celebrate those moments with them in the moment.

I'm A Pretty Good Song

Couple of playlists

That I wanted to join

Thought I’d fit

Guess I didn’t belong

Made me doubt

I’m a pretty good song

I’m certified MFA

You can find out

With your next straight play:

Rhyme and reason

I come on strong.

You might decide

I’m a pretty good song.

Been a good while

Since i’ve been on stage.

But I’m keeping sharp

In spite of my age.

I’ll get my chance;

Prove ‘em wrong.

Hope (I can believe in)

I strongly believe in metamorphosis. I've seen it on a personal level, on a business level, within groups, even regions. I believe that change is not a slogan, but rather a goal, and that winning and losing are habits on the opposite sides of the same coin. But neither is as much about luck as that both are so closely entwined. 

As Jimmy Buffett pointed out, "There's a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.” Victory and defeat share the same border.

Not suggesting anyone adopt this view; simply sharing how I perceive Carolina football, which for me began at the age 5 when we moved to a house in Chapel Hill on Flemington Road, directly across from where Charlie Justice lived. A few years later my cousin played wide receiver for UNC, and that was that. Fan for life. Not sure I even had a choice as many of my earliest memories include amazing fried chicken on game days, and that my dad parked in the driveway of a colleague's house near Kenan, and the trudge to the stadium that followed.

Jim Hickey. Jim Tatum. Bill Dooley. Dick Crum. Mack Brown. Carl Torbush. John Bunting. Butch Davis. Everett Withers. Larry Fedora. And Mack Brown 2.0

So many Saturdays that began with promise and ended in heartache, as did seasons, and even the hiring of new leadership.

Reality says UNC will suck. Hard to not agree.

And yet, I don't. I actually believe UNC football will have a good team and program again in my lifetime. We've had spasms of success that were soon overshadowed with what one might insist is typical dysfunction. And that is not an invalid point of view. In fact, it's far more sane than what I choose to do.

One of my favorite moments in film comes from THE SHAWKSHANK REDEMPTION, when Red is on the bus headed to Mexico. As we see him peering out one of the windows, we hear: “I hope, I hope, I hope."

This riveting moment was set up in the note that Andy Dufresne left in the can for Red to find under that distinctive tree. The key line in that note: "Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."

Not to suggest that Carolina football, in regard to sustained success, has been a good thing. Far from it. But Carolina as an entity, however, is a great thing.

I have unlimited passion for UNC. I know going into each basketball season, for instance, that my heart is likely going to be broken ... that Lucy is going to pick up that ball just as I try to kick.

I know it. And I don't care. I'm willing to commit, to take that chance. And accept the roller coaster for what it is.

This is far from a soap box plea to recruit others to join me in my folly; simply sharing my perspective.

I realize it is foolish. And again, i just don't care.

Each positive moment is such a keen high— Trenton Simpson's decommitment from Auburn last night certainly has potential as such and came at a perfect time. Clearly, what happened Saturday was a disaster. Yes, UNC lost that battle. But the war continues.

As John Hiatt suggested, “We can live in fear, or act out of hope."

I'm going with Ellis Boyd Redding.

I hope. I hope. I hope.

Mack & Sam

(Forgive me, Townes)


Living on the edge my friend
Is gonna haunt your aching dreams.
But you keep on keeping on
Till your breath is hard as kerosene.
Mack B was not the only son,
But the favorite one it seemed;
As the fan base began to cry
When Mack left for a brand new team.

All the pundits say,
Carolina had seen its best day.
UNC's a hoops and soccer school:
Football's just a trunk of woes.
Why did UNC let
Mack slip away?
Out of blindness I suppose.

Sam wasn't alive
For Mack's first UNC run.
But he trusted
What Mack had done;
And when the time was right
Sam chose the Heels.
Can't fathom how he feels.

Two games in,
And both were grinners.
Lots of chicken, lots of dinners.
Sinners to saints,
Losers to winners.

Tell me again
How Mack's too old;
A lie as stale
As it is cold.
Here's one that's right on the nose:

Mack is back
And he must have known
All along that Sam's the Man.
No big shock, don't you suppose?

The poets tell how Miami fell;
Now they're staying in a cheap hotel.
Kenan's quiet, the Canes are cold.
So the story ends we're told.
UNC has answered prayers, it's true;
Those boys did what Mack said to do.

All the pundits say
They knew it would happen that way:
Mack comes back
As if he'd never been away.

What happens next?
Kind of hard to say.
But one thing for sure:
The Heels will come to play.

Mack IS Back

UNC 24, South Carolina 20.

What a second half.

What a win. The kind of win that has eluded UNC football since goal posts were invented.

As Mack told the team in the locker room before the game:

"YOU ONLY GET ONE CHANCE TO MAKE A FIRST IMPRESSION."

Noted.

Bull's Eye

To mutter, even to oneself, that we live in a strange time defines being present.

What do we have if we can't hope, or dream, or even dream about hope?

What exactly do we want?

Exactly.

Nothing gets to the point quicker than when one thinks or behaves with clarity. Exactly is an adverb. But it is an adverb pumped up, an adverb as close to a verb as a word might be that is nonetheless saddled with the bulky baggage of an LY.

One needs to be wary of adverbs. And adjectives. The world of motion thrives with nouns and verbs as its fuel. Adverbs and adjectives get in the way of that flow. Avoid them.

Forget the passive, embrace the aggressive.

To do. Or not.

Up to you.

There's an ancient story about Burt Reynolds when he was working in the TV series GUNSMOKE. Spencer Tracy, whom Reynolds idolized (for great reason) happened to be working on a film on a nearby set. Day after day, when he could get away from his own job, Reynolds went to Tracy's realm to watch the man work. Tracy caught wind of this, and one day on set, they met.

As the legend goes, Tracy asked, "What is it that you want to do in Hollywood?"

Reynolds said, "Act."

Tracy replied, "Don't let them catch you at it."

In regard to Tracy in performance, when he listened, he LISTENED. Watch him in any of his films, notably INHERIT THE WIND, where in one courtroom scene with his back to the camera, as dialogue occurred, he used his left shoulder to register receipt. Stunning.

The process of making a film, with its constant starts, restarts, and short flurries of performance has a partner in focus with golf, particularly golf at the highest level, which requires sporadic attention, but when that moment comes, it requires TOTAL COMMITMENT.

To that end, one of the great sages of golf wisdom and practice — or any hand-eye endeavor that demands finite repetition that must be enhanced with relaxation — Harvey Penick stands tall.

Penick began his golf career as a caddie, then a player, before turning to his life's work— teaching. During his lengthy tenure at Austin Country Club in Austin, Texas  (Ben Crenshaw and Tom Kite were among his throng of pupils), Penick kept detailed notes of little nuggets, clues, and tips in a red notebook. Eventually, someone had the brilliant idea of turning Harvey's notebook into a published text. And not shockingly, the first Penick work is titled HARVEY PENICK'S LITTLE RED BOOK.

It is one of those books that dissects a form so clearly and simply that its many lessons can be applied to other endeavors, such as, for instance, acting.

To my mind HARVEY PENICK'S LITTLE RED BOOK is the marketing title. The content title, however, occurs on page 45, with the nugget heading: TAKE DEAD AIM.

Consider this excerpt:

When my student Betsy Rawls was in a playoff for the U.S. Open Women's Championship, I sent her a one-sentence telegram.

It said, "Take dead aim."

Betsy won the playoff.

For golfers who might not understand Texas talk, let me put the advice in the telegram a different way: Once you address the golf ball, hitting it has got to be the most important thing in your life at that moment. Shut out all other thoughts other than picking a target and taking dead aim at it. 

This is a good way to calm the nerves.


Clarity of purpose when exact yields centered focus. Some might call that state of being THE ZONE, which happens at times in any endeavor where performance and precision become perfect partners.

How do we get into the zone? How do we stay there? And why would we ever leave a state of mind and body where we dart across the universe like a shooting star and yet do so in slow motion?

Most important: how do we get back?

The wisdom of another sage provides a path: Declan Donnellan's fascinating text, THE ACTOR AND THE TARGET,  cracks a mental whip with lightning bolts of clarity.

Do you remember the iconic scene of Robin Hood showing up at an archery contest, and the villain hits the center of the target. And Robin Hood follows by splitting that arrow?

That arrow splitting gives exact vibrant meaning.

Donnellan says:

1. There is always a target.
2. The target exists outside and at a measurable distance.
3. The target exists before you need it.
4. The target is always specific.
5. The target is always transforming.
6. The target is active.


One way of digesting these pearls is to acknowledge that clarity of purpose is constant, that the source of that clarity is elusive and changing, and that when we define the new source of clarity, we have pinpointed our next target, which like life (and dominoes), keeps tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.


Don't let them catch you at it.
Take dead aim.
You are what you see.
Bull's Eye.

"Old Macky Is Back In Town"

Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it, ah, out of sight

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread

Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there's never, never a trace of red

Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh

Lies a body just oozin' life, eek

And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?

There's a tugboat, huh, huh, down by the river don'tcha know

Where a cement bag's just a-drooppin' on down

Oh, that cement is just, it's there for the weight, dear

Five'll get ya ten, old Macky's back in town

I said Jenny Diver, whoa, Sukey Tawdry

Look out to Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown

Yes, that line forms on the right, babe

Now that Macky's back in town

Look out, old Macky's back

Now that, perhaps, memories of Bobby Darin, or a lanky villain with a shiny blade in a theatre classic have meandered toward the present, and while the band packs up to head to another gig: the college football question of the week, if not all of autumn, for UNC fans:  how will Mack Brown, his staff, and his team fare this season?

For me, it's difficult to have a "reasonable" prediction without the decades of turmoil-disappointment-frustration factor.

I expect one abysmal skull drugging: Clemson.

Mercer looms as the sure thing. She's going to spend the night.

The rest?  A variety of teases and squeezes, some that might even as Tom Petty would say, "Breakdown. Go ahead and give it to me."

Reality screams have you not paid attention?

Well, I have. 

Last season had as much to do with fitness and confidence in the fourth quarter as it did with our players being overmatched. An agonizing, predictable fade in the fourth quarter that led all observers to see the writing before the wall was up, With Ellliott we knew there would be no miracle drive, and that the defense would fall apart, try as it might — to its credit, effort was never the issue. Fatigue, fear and fate formed a season-long caucus that ran the show for UNC when it counted.

Even the one instance Elliott delivered with the perfect pass in the final period against Virginia Tech, a fumble in the end zone turned an upset into another devastating, mind-numbing defeat.

Failure and success: "It's a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning," as Jimmy Buffett once remarked.

Based on nothing but what Mack and his staff accomplished elsewhere before coming to UNC, the recruiting the past few months, the changes with fitness, how camp was run and there were no injuries, even how the QB sweepstakes was handled — realists might say quickly that Mack was likely to go with the horse that he brought. Perhaps  — But using only what the staff has done, it is difficult to not succumb to hope for a surprise or two as in games won. 

It's a funny thing about confidence. You can't buy it. You can lose it much easier than find it. But should that surprise victory come early ...who knows. As Chi Chi Rodriquez once admitted, "The more I practice, the luckier I get." Confidence can be a tool, particularly confidence that evolved and eventually became deserved. Doubt is the biggest enemy at this point. 

That, and reality.

Howell certainly has potential. Perhaps the team does, too. 

A good news snippet materialized yesterday with the NCAA's decision (finally) to declare the Auburn transfer eligible to play this season.

Optics has become one of those buzz words that is already flirting with cliche (as is unpack), but what does UNC need to keep going forward and not meander or step back?

1. Have to compete every game for 60 minutes. That's a given.

2.Other than Clemson, keep the hope of victory alive as long as time permits. Perhaps even grabbing one or two of those nail trimmers that Fed could never win.

3. That even the most cynical observers admit the team made substantial progress during the season. For me that's Optics 101. The team has to be perceived as evolving upward.

My cousin played for Jim Hickey. My habit has been to anticipate each game with a win as the goal, and during that game, to maintain that hope until reality demands a shift in view. That won't change.

I am excited for Saturday. So much unknown. And, for me, perhaps too much hope/expectation.

But as of today, Mack and Company are undefeated. 

Oh, to have that be true when dawn smiles Sunday.

One can almost hear ....

Look out, old Macky's back.

Seeking Employment

As it happened,

A wandering soul in need of focus

Did what anyone out of work

Would do: He checked the want ads.

Ah ha.

Other World Enterprise
Night Position

(Some fun involved)
Algonquin Hotel

Room 304.
See Mr. O.

Mr. O?

That’s interesting.

At the appointed hour,

He arrived, new suit and shoes,

And a different cut to his hair:

A bit longer than in the past.

A gruff, wheezing matron,

A cross between librarian and prison warden,

Occupied a mammoth desk

With mountains of paper.
She glanced up and barked, “Name?”

“Well, that depends.”

The wheezer grimaced.

“I see. You’re either an idiot or a comic.”

That stung.

“How about both?”

Wheezer muttered, “How about we call you Mr. X?”

“I get it. A chalk talk. Mr. O and Mr X. Get it? Xs and Os!”

Wheezer grimaced again in a different key. Apparently, she had a catalogue.
Some grimaces were brief. Others a bit more Russian novel as in desperate for a paragraph.

“How did you hear about this position?”

“Actually, I read about it in Whaddyagonnado Now?"

“That rag? Surprised we placed an ad there, but as the song says, one man’s ceiling—"

“Is another man’s attic?”

Wheezer’s eyes almost twinkled. For her that was a belly laugh. A real hip shaker. Earth moving. Carol King. The whole bit.

“Previous experience?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?

“Yes. i’ve had some experience.”

Wheezer snapped a pencil in half.

“Tell me whatever you want," Wheezer said. "Try to amuse me."

“My friends know me as Robin. I love hockey. Well, I did love hockey. I worked in a circus with the animals. One of the magicians said I had potential. I met a wizard who needed an assistant, and he taught me a few spells. I moved to New Orleans and discovered mojo and that snakes are not to be trusted. At one point I thought i fell in love. But it was not to be. She was mortal, and I was far from it. Did some freelance with a band of angels, but I hated the costumes. Worked the Catskills in the after after hours clubs. Worked in advertising. Helped name a soft drink."

Wheezer studied Robin a moment.

"Sprite?"

"Well, it wasn't Tab."

"Ha," Wheezer said. "Good one."

"This is a tough house."

Wheezer shrugged, "Wait till you meet Mr. O."

Be A Sucker

I’m a sucker

For Hoosiers’ Jimmy

When he says “I’ll make it.”

And he does.

Yeah, it’s Hollywood

By way of John R. Tunis

And Clair Bee.

Fantasy

Finds

Reality.

Chip Hilton

And MJ

Had their day.

I’m a sucker

For that moment

That brings a team together.

Sunshine

After bad weather.

I’m a sucker

For that

Positive

Vibe.

And to that,

Like The Dude,

I will

Abide.

Check

Out

The message

You’re

Really

Sending.

Find out

For certain

if it’s real;

Or

You’re

Just

Pretending.

Is it

Actually yours?

Or are you

Just

Trending?

Up

Or

Down?

The big decision.

Choose

Ascending.

Why?

Be a sucker

For

A

Happy

Ending.

Addicted to Blame

Addicted To Blame Recording

(Apologies to Robert Palmer)

Lights are on, but nobody’s home

No one’s mind is still their own

Summer’s hot, getting hotter

Buildings melt, low on water

Can’t sleep, nothing to eat

No doubt we’re in too deep

Throat’s tight, can’t breathe

A patsy is what we need

You like to think you’re immune to the stuff

But in truth you can’t get enough

You know you’re gonna have to face it

You’re addicted to blame

Racism lout supremacy

The Klan and NRA

Had another mass murder today

Video games and immigrants

Take the unjust heat

Run through the jungle?

They’ll tax your feet.

They like to think they’re immune to the stuff

But in truth they can’t get enough

We know they’re gonna have to face it

They’re addicted to blame

Lights are on but nobody’s home

No one’s mind is still their own

Thoughts and prayers

Are at best bit players

This country’s gonna be broke

Before enough of us are finally woke.

We love to think we’re immune to the stuff

Sad but true we can’t get enough

We might as well face it

We’re addicted to blame

Words, Sticks and Stones

Sticks and Stones
May break my bones
But words will never hurt me.

Sadly, that phrase is so 20th century and does not apply now.

Trump's inflammatory language, at Chernobyl levels of toxic this past week, was uttered to do much more than merely insult. It was a call to arms. He seeks to motivate his base with violence.

Morally bankrupt has been a phrase often used, particularly, as Trump emboldens himself further and further into the kind of mental imbalance that defines madness. He is totally corrupt and far more stupid than he knows.

The pathetic aspect of this is that this is no longer really about Trump (we know who this asshole is) — it is the cowards who refuse to speak out until they have nothing to lose ... Paul Ryan being the poster wuss for this. We've also learned that this is not so much about Trump, but rather the enormous boulder that Trump uncovered, allowing the white supremacists, American Nazis, bigots and racists of all flavors, idiots, assholes, mentally uncurious, and simply those who get their news from tweets to crawl out and slither into the mainstream. These are people that in sane times would be disregarded by members of both parties. Quickly.

But we have learned that courage outage is not relegated to one party, but rather most of those elected to Congress. Easy to talk big when one has opted to not seek re-election, Jeff — perfectly named — Flake leading the pack with his "bravery." 

We have discovered that the GOP is afraid of Trump, but so are the democrats, who insist that politics is still politics. Not true in the Trump phase. This is street warfare with no rules, obviously.

But the dems keep thinking Norman Rockwell is painting this picture. Salvador Dali is closer to the truth, and a Dali hopped up on pretty bad acid at that.

When I see a member of congress boasting that the House is "threatening" to condem Kellyanne Conway, or William Barr ... what a fucking joke. Threaten? Why threaten? Do it. And really that condemnation is nothing more than a parking ticket. Felony charges will get the job done. And it is obvious to many sane people that Trump and his cohorts have been breaking the law at the speed of tweet.

Barr joins McConnell as the two enablers of greatest significance. Barr has proven himself to be John Goodman as Roy Cohn, while McConnell has stacked the courts with conservatives without left eyes, and lined his pockets with Russian cash.

We are fucked until people on both sides of the aisle figure out that power is not the goal. Getting rid of this cancer is self- and country-preserveration. It is the Icarus cabinet, resisiting science as if it were disease, and with that short-sighted greed they are forcing all of us to wear wax wings and fly toward the sun.

This is not hyperbole.

Climate change is beyond real at this point. And sadly, perhaps tragically, those with the power to do something, anything, about it, are intent only on making more money. This is lunacy.

Seeing

Build the tower.

From the ground

Then have it lean.

If that’s what you want.

Foundation

Is

To

Freedom

As 

Limber

Is

To

Fluid.

Go with it.

You can tease

Gravity

Once

You

Know

How

To 

Fall.

You

Don’t

See

Through

The Mask.

It sees

Through

You.

For You To See The Stars

Note: What follows is a letter written to Cyndi Hoelzle, who manages Radney Foster (and also happens to be married to him.) Radney has released a CD and a book of short stories, FOR YOU TO SEE THE STARS that are companions. I recommend both highly.

Hi Cyndi,

I read the book in one sitting. I promise this note will address how much i enjoyed what i read, but wanted to share a bit of detail.

As mentioned, I attended MerleFest last week. My wife and I stay in Boone, partly because of quality of hotel, partly because we love small college towns, and mostly for the drive to and from Wilkesboro.

Saturday we sat in the sun too long on the Hillside Stage and decided to skip Sunday at MerleFest and take a long drive into the mountains. I have an outstanding sound system in a Genesis Coupe, one that I had put in by a demonic, if not possessed, audiophile in search of ideal/perfect mobile sound. 

So it was an easy decision to listen to Radney’s record, as well as a new recording by Driftwood, a band that performed Saturday on the Hillside.

Had to stop the car many times and simply be still to hear such wonderful work.

When we came to BELMONT AND SIXTH, i turned off US-19E and found some shade in a volunteer fire department parking lot. A slightly frayed American flag flapped almost in three-quarter time in a field in front of an adjacent house, and we were totally transfixed. 

My wife and I are extremely keen about politics: we loathe the current administration as much as we despise the fractious partisan bullshit that permeates our culture. Thus, with that strong bias, BELMONT AND SIXTH and ALL THAT I REQUIRE were more than just terrific songs, they were strong statements that were presented in such a way that, perhaps, both sides of the political aisle might heed the lessons that were shared. Then again, I’m not totally sure Trump’s base reads willingly. I do know they listen and watch Fox News, which is poison.

We listened to ALL I REQUIRE while driving by a mountain stream, which reminded me of my dad, who taught Shakespeare in the English department at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, or UNC. Pete, my dad, died in December of 1999, and while he didn’t make it to this century, he didn’t have to put up with Bush/Cheney and the current menace. He would have loved Obama. Pete’s main distraction was fly fishing, a realm that never hooked me as it did him. 

And while driving by that stream, I thought of some major what ifs. My dad and I had long discussions about Shakespeare. He insisted the words were meant to be read, and as I trained as an actor, and have done numerous plays by Shakespeare, and have been told that I have an affinity for speaking that verse, I insisted Shakespeare is meant to be performed. In the clear and reasonable light of day, we’re both right.

That connection during the drive carried over yesterday afternoon. We have four cats and always return from MerleFest on Monday, giving us one more day in the mountains. My wife went to pick up the cats at Mayfair Animal Hospital, which also boards animals — a perfect spot in case any of the cats have a medical issue. And while Ruth (my wife) was gone, I unpacked the car, then went to my office to open the Amazon package that waited on my porch.

It occurred to me that Radney’s CD and book were echoes of a familiar, cherished discussion, though a strong case could be made that both forms are meant to be read and heard. When Radney read from his book on the main stage on Thursday at MerleFest, I reached for my phone and ordered via Amazon, partly because I’d wished for more than a decade that some form of drama be performed on that stage during that music festival…and Radney reading fit that wish. 

Loved the gentle musical background provided by that insanely talented guitarist, who also joined Radney for the acoustic set Friday. (googled and discovered Eddie Heinzelman — that cat can play.)

We listened to Radney’s CD again coming back from MerleFest on Monday. I’d read Shari’s note about changing the title from SYCAMORE CREEK to FOR YOU TO SEE THE STARS. I loved both songs.

And when i finished the title story, it’s easy to agree that Shari was right. Such a perfect companion to the song, the story paints in vivid detail a rare experience in nature, while addressing an equally rare phenomenon that eludes many families — forgiveness for paths taken as well as those that were avoided.

One can enjoy the song. One can enjoy the story. But as Isabel points out in her story, the combination, like God, is poetry.

At that point, akin to a famished brook trout in an Avery County stream who’d pounced on a homemade fly, I was hooked. I read FOR YOU TO SEE THE STARS in one sitting, allowing the characters and their actions to work on me as a unit.

I think fiction becomes theater in that way.

Here are some observations:

Radney’s writing is lean, always to the point, crafted rather than spewed, patient instead of hurried. Reminds me of Elmore Leonard’s acute and perfect style, a writer whose major tip to others is to “leave out the parts that nobody will read."

If one was not aware that Radney had written songs, a suggestion to do so might follow. Radney stitches elements in his written stories like poignant arrangements with an arsenal of apt instruments in ways that brought to mind T-Bone Burnett’s work with CRAZY HEART.

The story ISABEL hit me hard. Partly because of my dad, and mostly because of its gentle pace that allowed the images to appear and then attach themselves to my mood. 

ANOTHER DRAGON TO SLAY felt like a Twilight Zone episode, and I could spend hours discussing why this story works so well as a warning without mentioning the key person involved. It is perfect. Not the least bit hyperbolic. And that makes it all so pathetically sad.

History has a way of repeating if no one pays attention: 1935 in Berlin can easily be 2019 in Houston, or Dallas, or Palm Beach, or wherever illusion has thwarted fact.

That’s one of the great powers of fiction. A character can tell us truth that we might not accept from a “living person.” Too bad.

i expected SYCAMORE CREEK to be one hell of a story. I was not disappointed. The details about music and guitars were wonderful, and I wished I could listen to Radney and his friends talk about music in the ways that musicians do when they gather. And then hear them play. 

The details in the song GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH are some of my favorite lines, and that writing reminds me very much of Guy Clark, who often latched onto real “things” and nudged those things into an imaginary, but precise realm.

A CD, like a film, has a designated length of time. One can stop and start, but the running time never changes. A book of stories is more like baseball … you’ll be done when you’re done, and if you have to go to extra innings to do so, so be it.

What a terrific concept to have a CD and a book of stories stand on stage together.

The combination becomes script and soundtrack to a film in one’s own imagination.

Maybe an actual film is the logical next step … that Radney craft his stories with his music, while using the camera to weave in images that those words and music amplify, a trifecta of expression, which has its own truth.

Secrets and wisdom lurk in the details, and while it is such a cliche that it will always be true, love is the answer.

All the best to you both.

Mark