July 19th, 2014 NOTES

                       Image from a larger work on paper by Francis Zander, Jenny Moon Tucker
                        and M Pony Payroll Bones.  Late May/Early June 2014

Below are notes, poetics, aphorisms, bits of folklore, observations, fragments, lyrical lines etc taken from handwritten jottings in a notebook on Saturday July 19th, 2014.  The formless formed.  Something may or may not occur with these notes.  Something already has these are notes. Yes, the formless formed.  Raw, nonlinear, associative, honest ramblings-----

JUly 19th Notes, 2014................

--the problem of mechanisms

-----thee problems of

Mechanisms---

One forgets what the original definition of machine is.

Outdated cultural metaphors chutz it up.  The stand up comedy in purgatory is NOT FUNNY.

barking dogs, motorcycles Revving---Recognition of barely freedom those dirt bike rider kids?

There's a pig in the alley trying to sell me bacon.

squallin Cat. 

Autumn breeze made

a summer tooth loosE

The old clubhouse down the dirt road winding hills...where the local folks would have dances.

The pistol shot

a hole in the banjer

and tha player was not struck

yet took time to feel conviction of this.

One truly understands music if one is put in danger by music in any context.

Hen waller

Breakin tha Cow's

necK

Pissin inside

tha covered bridge

upon midnight

whipstitch

bloody them shoes

Lame donkey dances in the rain

The stranger had

lost his way and

everyone wasz a

stranger and they did not know

so  (they did not KNow they were also strangers.)  The stranger

KneW he wasz a strangeR.

TheY forced me

to be right handed,

                        I suspect

--I'm still from the devil.  I am left

handed.

don't trust a woman

            who hides behind a

man

don't trust a man

who hides behind

a woman

singing usta be as natural as

talking

            breathing---100 yeaRs

ago--

            (and where did this happen you might ask?)

some evil tooK over this countrY--don't

want people ta sing

--         --singing keeps things

honest

fiddle and banjo

come from the devil

THe name of thA

composer was long

f o R G o T T E N

An old insult "HE stood behind the door too long."

Horse apple

Quaker bottom Road

Hamlin's Wizard Oil

William S. Hays wrote "Little Log Cabin in the Lane."

            THis was the first country hit played and sung by

Fiddlin John Carson  ---1923--Old ATL Moonshiner, Patriarch, Roustabout and timeless man of his day.  He knew obligations.  Good bad.  THe burning crimson evening

descendeth over tha PiedmonT.

"Things have changed their

course another way."

an old insult "He didn't know enough to throw rocks at

chickens"

"Nostalgia ain't what it used to be."

Grandmother's dream

He got drunk

and tried to stab tha

river to death.

The river drowned him.

"I had a little chicken/she had a wooden leg."

"If you need a helping hand you'll find it at

the end of your arm."

Below are five

 examples of Pioneer/Appalachian Slang

Jimber Jawed

Cooter around

flustrated

hillside fish

obsquatulate--(to mosey or to abscond)) 

(end)

squirrel draggeR

--rabbit  bomPer

saLacious winds of

ghost tongues--

Conviction or Caprice?

Interrogations proliferated

yet no resolution

            ---that itself is

the resolution- - -

Babble goes the babbling animal(s)

A soul in de

U N D E R WO R L D

            SKELETONIZED with de BONES REARRANGED with CrueLTY

A whistling Crow

and a belching Hen

Death cups accompany

and offers offers

from a burlap sack

            O SiN.

         
      Image from a larger work on paper by Francis Zander, Jenny Moon Tucker

                        and M Pony Payroll Bones.  Late May/Early June 2014

ThaR was a Twang Mong thA LonesOme WinD (working draft intro to POny PayRoLL BonEs talKin CountrY musiCs)

BeloW is a workin Introduction(?) draft to PonY PaYroLL bOnEs tALkIn cOuNtrY mUsiCSSSs.  THe book compiles all of my country music "articles" in one place plus extras...thar shall be manY editions of this cuz tha articLes will keeP on happenin.  maybe try to make//print some hard copies in next 4-6 months...send some commenTs this weeK. this is a rough ruff drafTiN----

At the bottom of the draft I have included some photos I took down in Tennessee above Chattanooga in Appalachia.  The cemetery was in the beautiful shade of mountain shadows and sun beamed infusion hills.  The photos seem to speak a certain aspect of country music.

                                                    pHoTo bY MattheW ponY paYroLL BoNes--(((empty third                  room at buckingham been recordin alot here ---Ole brYan Keith MartIn's OlE rooM)))

ThaR was a Twang MonG thA LonesOMe WinD

Yes, thar was a twang mong tha lonesome wind. SurE have sure heard that lonesome twang many a times.

 Heard thaT lonesome train whistle chill shatter the very bone.  Heard thaT demon whipperwill amongst tha suicides of hard workin men and women and childrens.  Saw some old dogs die.  Saw tha world was mean and full of confederate love.  Saw some good folks die.

I hear some bodies hammerin a body up on Calvary day and night night and day.  Two thieves and a king.  The whole earth soaked with deaths.  Cold Lonesome nights, yer blood and even yoR marrow geT downright mean with lonesomes.

In tha X-raY negatives of memory.  The family dog was barking at reconstruction horse thieves.  I am starting over.  Facts feelings--Fools fevers--Feverous no good tramPs…

Fair requests. The stars were pools of water. The stars are pools of water. 

Two barn owls go hollering hoot screeching inside the geographic geometry of Autumn.  Inside the country of blue tinted glass blue autumn.  This is a memory.

“ I felt my hands shaking I felt my heart breaking.  He meant every word he said.  I saw him whisper something. I saw you look so happy”—Ricky Van Shelton.

White flowers line the steep slopes upon the ridge and hills above Panther Creek, North East Georgia---Alabaster flowers blaze with white flames.  Dark oaks dark maples. Dark because the sun is not shining above the countryside, the wilderness anymore.  I am one of many who have come through here.  Who are passing through here.  You are not here with me.  This I knew---- you would not be with me here.

Those places some with names. Some with no names yet you can feel the names talking rambling broken dialogues, proclamations—Listless chatter was butchered many many years upon years upon years ago.  Like a river that swallows large stones

Shiny hands over tha Georgia red dirt.  Stains your soul----do you like “In The Ghetto?”  Do you like “Stranger In My Own Home Town”?

No one can leap over yor shadow.  No one can Leap/over your shadow---

Dark light provokes sobriety’s devastations—hand me down my walking cane and hand me bacK down that whiskeY bottle.  That Ole Crowe and Ancient Age for suRe.

For God’s sake our eyes as apparition sails or canoes rocking against each other a terrible cold winter day upon one them lakes the Tennessee ValleY AuthoritY made with apocalyptic ease.

Tha sonG below be onE PonY PayRoLL boNes is crafTin.  It goes roughly like these words wretchin below.  They go.  Here theY go:

Some dumb ass kids were yellin upon me when I walked out thaT fronT dooR/I thrown some bourbon in my coffee so I could jus keep movin/I was walkin past tha graveYar/I was walkin past tha cemetery graveyard/I was waltzin by tha graveyard cemetarY/when thangs got funny/ya thangs got funny/I breathed in a ghosT/I breathed in a ghost/that’s righT!/I breathed in a ghost/got possesion got ghost possession upon me/got ghost possession upon this meat/them ghosts whisperin thangs in my heart/them ghosts swimming in tha rivers of my cavern heart//ain’t no liquor makem drown/ain’t no liquor make them ghost drown/whiskey bourbon tequilla gin/yea I got some ghosts twangin tha troubles of tha heart/I breathed in a ghost one day/It was called Country Music//gotta get my lonesome ass outta this dirtY Ole ciTy//




Part II

I been diggin up boNes!  I’m weeping tears of blood.  I’ve been threatin tha neighbor’s dog.  I’ve been cheatin on your cheatin wife.  Show you right!  Buncha fooLs in this blackberrY briaR worlD.  Buncha fooLs make this fooLish worLd.

Broom can’t sweep up the wet blood and dust on Sundays.  Behind the left eye the stone that recognizes you. Darkening road veiled darker through dolorous creaking of pine trees. Georgia pine treess.  In memory --you are a corpse time stranded in the Victorian era.  “they” forgot to bury you with a compass….that’s how we got a lot of that old country music.  Ole Jimmie Rodgers getting Tuberculosis blood all over the Victorian guitar songs.  Ole Jimmie Rodgers gittin blood cough all over Sarah Carter’s apron as A.P jus kept lookin tha other way. 

A.P. saw some things up in them mountains and growling hollows.  He saw for himself that some hollers go down in a hollow and git stuuckkk.  The whole thang is very lonesome very.  So such that Lonesome got lonely and shivers ---shivering a bunch of lonesomeness.

When A.P. Carter was born-- a paint or what they also called a Mountain Lion or more commonly a Cougar--- tried at done stealth into that open window (all windows were open then to tha weathering elementals of God’s mightY wraith and writhing) one room log cabin and eat ole A.P’s babY head right off!

Now adays not many fools and folk play dulcimers or zithers or autoharps.  Now  adays not many lap steel country players round either.  Usta be a dime a dozen, those lonely lonely electrical lap steel playas.  Not many Pete Drakes or fantastic REAL LIFE musics like Inspirational Instrumentals by Camp Family and Davis Brothers.

Not many Johnny Mauldins either and like he is very much so like his long playing LP titled with proclamation subtlety , An American Original.  Gregarious in his holy honesty the man sang spitefully about those “Shyster Lawer “(s) whilst also understanding the awe inspiring supernatural of experiencing “Thunderstorm Over Amarillo.”  Today, at least you get Johnny Corndawg, a man who does the best he can with the sadly states of country musics today.

I wanna meeT the Gentle Shepherd Getar player Ralph Trotto up in heaven or down in lickin hell some these days.  I wanna shake hands with these mysteries.

According to Appalachia lore, it sure is bad luck to throw yor shoes at a funeral coming by your way!

Come along and done giT killed with me down in the deep hollers and hollows neath smokey blue ridge haze and valleYs chortle darkly.  Here the heart is wet rawness pulsing wildlY.  True emotions writhe in feverous throe.  Let us giT drenched soaked to the sinful bone in the holy ghost blood twang.