This is not a journal entry

a refugee from my apartment in Oildale, circa 1979

Got a phone call from Tsyganka in Memphis. She has no computer these days, but she seemed like she was doing fine. I’ve been thinking about old friends, and the boxes of memories around the house. I want to try to make some sense of things. But it occurs to me that there are solid reasons to try to be remote from the past. There’s a lot of hurt in there. I can’t keep my mouth shut. I talk too much.

Too many people. Too many sad goodbyes. It reminds me of that Robert Frank piece in Lines of My Hand “Sick of Goodbyes.” But I carry around the artifacts. Sometimes bridges were burned. Sometimes, the situation just changed and life moved on. Sometimes it’s even hard to remember the names. I’m looking at negatives, trying to find positives. It wasn’t all bad. There was lots of good.

I smiled when I found this drawing. It’s an original Mike Patterson, from his Rene Magritté phase. I spent a long time without a phone when I lived in Oildale. Mike made me one, of sorts. He was sick of dropping by only to find out I wasn’t at home. I spent some time without a TV as well. Mike never drew one of those for me. We were too busy listening to music to miss that.

In an odd coincidence, The Best of Hot Tuna just arrived in my mailbox today. I remember when Mike came over with Yellow Fever and Phosphorescent Rat to that very apartment. “We don’t need no stinkin’ TV!”