Things took a darker turn midway through the summer trip. The odometer clicked over the 3k mark on my way back to Little Rock from Oklahoma to pick up Krista—my mother has been sick and I had to go over alone to begin with. The news that Slim died puts a weird twist on things; the news isn’t really a surprise. I woke up today hearing his voice in my head covering the old Butch Hancock song “Fools Fall in Love”:
A wise man hits the bottom
But a fool just falls on through
I haven’t been in the mood to make pictures; I’d like to say more about Slim, but all the necessary resources such as photographs and songs are at home. Rex mentioned on the phone yesterday that Atlanta was the song that was haunting him. I hadn’t heard it until yesterday. It’s hard to listen to it now. Scott had been writing suicide notes for at least three decades (his first band was in fact, called Teen Suicide). He always wanted to go out leaving a good song. There are some things that it isn’t good to be an overachiever at. Cirrhosis is one of them. Forty-six is too young to die.
Hopefully, I’ll be back on the road soon. I found a new destination thanks to a link at an opportune time. Someone linked a post of mine quoting Ed Ruscha to go with the story of a new exhibit in Bartlesville, OK. I should be able to pass through there on my way back north. I’m looking forward to it. Things have just been too gloomy lately.
