"Wayfaring Stranger" (Arranged and Adapted by John R. Cash and John Carter Cash)
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Who doesn't love this song.American III, American Recordings, and Unchained arrived recently. Nights, mornings I've lain in bed listening. American Recordings and Unchained have yet to have the hearings they deserve. After washing dishes to the accompaniment of American III, I sat in my chair and listened again. This time unfolding the oversized liner notes. Reading these casual reminiscences was a loosening. Turning to the notes for Unchained was my undoing. Veggie burgers, bottle breaking, the sweetness of being tamed, the wish when the wind yowls to be crazy again. Beauty of the words, the songs, this man. Recognition. Homecoming. Love that kept me leaning there, reading, listening, weeping there. The mystery that calls one soul to answer, open to another soul across whatever distances. There is more to say, but perhaps it would make us blush in the morning. Instead let's take the leap my brain made:Randall Jarrell "The Woman At The Washington Zoo" The saris go by me from the embassies.Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet. They look back at the leopard like the leopard.And I. . . . this print of mine, that has kept its colorAlive through so many cleanings; this dull nullNavy I wear to work, and wear from work, and soTo my bed, so to my grave, with noComplaints, no comment: neither from my chief,The Deputy Chief Assistant, nor his chief--Only I complain. . . . this serviceableBody that no sunlight dyes, no hand suffusesBut, dome-shadowed, withering among columns,Wavy beneath fountains--small, far-off, shiningIn the eyes of animals, these beings trappedAs I am trapped but not, themselves, the trap,Aging, but without knowledge of their age,Kept safe here, knowing not of death, for death--Oh, bars of my own body, open, open!The world goes by my cage and never sees me.And there come not to me, as come to these,The wild beasts, sparrows pecking the llamas' grain,Pigeons settling on the bears' bread, buzzardsTearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . . Vulture,When you come for the white rat that the foxes left, Take off the red helmet of your head, the blackWings that have shadowed me, and step to me as man:The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn,To whose hand of power the great lionessStalks, purring. . . . You know what I was,You see what I am: change me, change me!
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