Listening to “Dig A Pony” and waiting for Bill Miller’s

You watched that “Let it Be” documentary? There’s something jarring and somehow comforting about watching George and Paul bicker over songs that have lived in my psyche for so many years. They seem so tiny and so gigantic, tinkering with the gospel as it were—writing in that kind of sand which turns to the strongest stone.

Starting back in the early 1980s two strange adults wrote me in some other kind of sand, as haphazardly and nearly as intuitively perhaps. But, what’s there in the way of song at the heart of this terrible jumble of symbols and side quests?

I’ve only learned how to turn away out of exhaustion and how to imagine less than nothing as a way to curb the fear of mere nothing. I played baseball as a kid just because I really believed in the wild Jesus that could walk bloody from my dad’s beating heart any day—if I could just pray for the fences.

I wish his mom never made him pitch those Mickey Mantle cards.