A Lamborghini I happened to spot in Eze, France. You need to own an oil tanker to keep this baby fed....

Just checking in after a one year hiatus! I'm not ready for Christmas, and don't plan to be. I like leaving some things undone. It makes Christmas eve much more interesting and Christmas day a complete mystery. You don't know if you'll be ostracized or elevated to mythical status by virtue of your holiday indifference. Am I the pagan, or would that label more properly apply to those who celebrate with offerings, indoor trees, and mistletoe. What the hell is that about? I'm sure it's some Germanic custom; and the Germans are among the most secular people in the world these days. I'm not saying that I don't celebrate the season, but the joy I feel is mysterious even to me. I don't believe in the God of our fathers and grandfathers. My God is much older, much more akin to the mystical vision of the bishops and gnostics who came before the 4th century. That is the one who can not be defined or named. That is the one who can never be known...

It's almost time for Merlefest, the great Americana music festival held each year in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Parkway in Wilkesboro, NC. We'll be going up for the entire festival. IT runs from April 24 through the 27th this year. If you've never been, and you like American roots music, you must make the pilgrammage at leat once. We'll be renting a cabin just down the road near the Parkway. I don't know how to explain the effect of this event on me. Debbie might be able to explain it better than I. It's a kind of salve for the soul, a spiritual adventure...not so intense as the gatherings held by the early Christians or by the Muslims who gather each year in Mecca. But still, there is something about it that heals and redeems... something that quickens the pulse and thrills the heart. I've included a photo here of Gillian Welch and DAvid Rawlings at the Watson Stage in 2006. Their harmonies are always enthralling and often haunting. If you think the festival is all about Bluegrass, think again. It's a great gumbo, as evidenced by the appearance last year of Elvis Costello. The year before that, Bob Weir of the Dead took the main stage, along with an eclectic California band called the Waybacks. This year, Levon Helm of the BAnd will headline on Saturday night. That's close to heaven!

Anyway, there's also a shot of my wife here with the cabel cars, and I have no idea what that has to do with this music. Anyway, she likes Bluegrass and roots music about as much as I do. Just wish we could play it better!

This is my last week on the job as a management type in local government. IT's been a titillating experience, I must say. As the end draws near, I am reminded of all the characters you encounter in this business; must be the nature of public life. Because you are managing and receiving taxpayer money, so the psychology goes, you are beholden to every nut who walks in the door. And never mind that they may be living on the street or even outside your jurisdiction. You still should bleed for them... they somehow expect a pound of flesh, or at least a quart of your sanity, assuming I suppose that in order to better serve them (the princes and princesses that they are) you must sacrifice your mental health in equal measure. It's the only way you can truly understand the hazy world in which they reside.

Still, I have enjoyed my 13 year stint with this fine City. Most of the people here are lovely and caring. I've not lived in a community where citizens were more willing to volunteer their time, money and skills to help others and improve their City. Now its on to another frontier, working with a statewide association to try and assist small local governments with their technical and legal issues. We are a state of about 4 million people and approximately 270 towns! Of course, most of those have less than 1,000 residents and were settled before or soon after the Civil War. Those little villages just don't have the resources to provide a full range of services to the residents and in some cases should cease to exist as formal municipalities; but it is that local identify, however, tenuous, that many smalltown citizens guard tenaciously. Identification with place is perhaps the quintessential theme of southern literature, and when you visit these places, you begin to understand. These folks don't have much, but they have a shared identity with a few hundred other people and a shared history.

I'm cleaning out this week and in the process finding all sorts of detritus scattered about. It's a real trip down memory isle. I'll be taking most of my photos and diplomas off the wall here soon. That does seem like a little death, a kind of professional nap from which I will awaken refreshed and ready to hang the evidence of my small personal accomplishments from a wall in my very own house, my new office. Wow, I've never been paid to work out of the home before. This could become addictive.

I do need to thank all the great people here I've worked with over the years and my family for sticking by me when I just wanted to scream and shout; not to mention the smart, funny friends I've made in this profession. Some things won't change...
Engel's talks about the dialectical nature of history, the constant transformation that is the world we know. I would agree on one level; but some things must have eternality, else why bother? Those friends, that family, those memories... they are constant.

My first post, and heaven knows where this is going. I will have to narrow the focus one day soon; but not quite yet. Later. It's like the old joke about sinning no more. Yes, Lord, I'll go and sin no more, but not yet... not now. It's a grand and summerish day in South Carolina, but farmers and horticulturists won't agree that it's such a wonderful Tuesday, this Fat Tuesday and Super Tuesday all rolled into one. I must check my horiscope today, because this confluence of events must have some cosmic significance beyond my meager human abilities to discern. What the hell. Between Ground hog day and Lent we're plumb outta days to celebrate just for the fun of it. Every day seems to be taken any more. We're told what to honor and remember constantly throughout the year. Now we hardly remember how to simply allow all the sensual elements of a given day wash over us without identification, without imposed symbols.

Some time soon, farmers will worry about early peaches freezing when the Canadian air returns; they will wonder momentarily why God plays these cruel games. And Visitors Bureaus will worry about azaleas flowering too soon, thus reminding the Augusta National elders that their power is not absolute. But farmers and children will not try to name the "why". They need not apply labels and marketing jingles to the effect, because they have direct knowledge. For them the Eucharistic wine sidesteps symbol. Wonder has no name.