John Hindsill,

"The Ash Grove" with nary an ash, nor even a tree in sight, let along a grove. Only a Pearl supported by a Forbes in a nondescript structure in a trafficked sprawl where it rarely rains on those micah-sprinkled-stucco-buildings that dry out a southern mountain salamander most at home were the springs break out from vast underground rivers to meet already moist humus, moss, trillium, rhododendron, & old Catawbahs breathing cool clean blue air.

But in trooped Johnny Cash & Bill Monroe & Doc Watson & Stu Jamieson & Clarence Ashley & Roscoe Holcomb (allowed to sing when done being a reflecting-stage-prop for his owner) & Cousin Emmy (whose histing her skirt & peeing in the sink & talking of "poontang" was what was expected of her by Scruggs & Flatt, who knew her from many another dressing room) & many a Carter & Country Joe MacDonald & the Fish & Mable Hillary & Bessie Jones & & & & & &....

The Pearl-supported-by-the-Forbes deepened his sheen with big concerts of Ravi Shankar & Joan Baez...

But the salamander's skin dried out and she wriggled off to wetter climes.

Art Thieme, that's a VERY GOOD last name. Did the "road" ever make you feel your brain was becoming a cauliflower? Perpetual motion like on a caged squirrel's wheel, and all those seductive clappers... If they're right, we surely must be glorious creatures! You don't get softened-up (or down) like that in more standard day-to-day life. I believe it's lethal for them and it's lethal for us, when we start to believe it. It's a con-trail for everybody. The performers, their audience; the celebrities, their adorers; the politicians, their convinced supporters; royalty, their bamboozlees, etc & so on.

It's late/early again!

Night,

Hedy