Dear Neil Garriscond,
Im sitting in the courtyard now, sipping from a plastic cup of really cheap beer. Ive noticed that its a lot harder here to get better provisions than it was elsewhere. Its tough, in its way. But then again, if everything were to stay the same in life, then I would have to settle in here, deal with it and consider this my home. I wont do that.
There are guards everywhere. Theres an eighteen foot wall surrounding the courtyard, at the top of which are guards with hunting rifles, presumably set at the ready. Theyre eagle-eyeing everyoneeven me, and Im just sitting like a dent in a broken-down car, legs sprawled out in the Kentucky Blue penning a letter to a good friend.
Today in the rec room we saw a documentary filmed in 1973 about the recording of John Denvers Farewell Andromeda record. At one point in the film, John is heatedly discussing the song Angels From Montgomery with John Prine.
What the fuck do you mean, I cant use allegory? Denver hisses, trying not to let the engineerJoe Lopeshear, because Joe would probably want to hit the record button for the posterity of it all, and Denver admittedly loathed controversy.
Prine throws up his hands like hes had enough. Look, fuck it, John. You do what you want. But listen, who made this all happen, you son of a bitch? If you werent so fucking full of yourself all the time wed be finished with this goddamned record and wed all be home sleeping with our wives.
But Denver just laughs him off, still tuning his guitar. You know what, John? he asks Prine. Where do you think Im headed to when I get back to the hotel? Just because your heartless wife aint got the good sense enough to know when her man needs a little company dont mean all women dont have a connection with their husbands. My Annie is always gonna be there for me. And you know what else? So is this song. So lets get back to recording, and you just shut your trap, hear?
John Prine storms out of the room, and then Denver notices the camera is still rolling. He cracks a short, nervous smile, abruptly falling back to his tuning. But there are lines in his face and his brow is furrowed, and I could tell that his smile was forced. The footage then cuts to Denver singing Berkeley Woman in the restroom of the studio, washing beer out of his hair from a party the previous night.
A very long scene in which its silent but for John skipping rocks across the lake behind the recording studio, slowly begins to fade out into still photographs of himself in the studio; pictured with a broken acoustic guitar with the f-hole cracked outward, pictured with Lee Holdridge as the two are polishing string instruments in the foyer of a hotel, pictured with Annie, kissing her on the cheek with one hand slipping a lazy tulip into her hair behind the ear, all as We Dont Live Here No More comes on and the credits start to roll.
Watching all this, I was really touched by John Denvers warmth both as a songwriter and as a human being. The love he has for his wife Annie is one of the film's many very subtle joys. Whether hes talking to her or simply about her, his face is just a bright conflagration of elation. It makes me hopeful, you know. And Neil, I mean what I say when I say that Im going to set myself straight.
Ill make everyone proud of me, just you wait.
Hey, the guards all have their rifles aimed at a crowd of inmates just off past the weight benches. Im going to go see what the deal is. Have a good Christmas, Neil.
Your friend,
Hidden.
Im sitting in the courtyard now, sipping from a plastic cup of really cheap beer. Ive noticed that its a lot harder here to get better provisions than it was elsewhere. Its tough, in its way. But then again, if everything were to stay the same in life, then I would have to settle in here, deal with it and consider this my home. I wont do that.
There are guards everywhere. Theres an eighteen foot wall surrounding the courtyard, at the top of which are guards with hunting rifles, presumably set at the ready. Theyre eagle-eyeing everyoneeven me, and Im just sitting like a dent in a broken-down car, legs sprawled out in the Kentucky Blue penning a letter to a good friend.
Today in the rec room we saw a documentary filmed in 1973 about the recording of John Denvers Farewell Andromeda record. At one point in the film, John is heatedly discussing the song Angels From Montgomery with John Prine.
What the fuck do you mean, I cant use allegory? Denver hisses, trying not to let the engineerJoe Lopeshear, because Joe would probably want to hit the record button for the posterity of it all, and Denver admittedly loathed controversy.
Prine throws up his hands like hes had enough. Look, fuck it, John. You do what you want. But listen, who made this all happen, you son of a bitch? If you werent so fucking full of yourself all the time wed be finished with this goddamned record and wed all be home sleeping with our wives.
But Denver just laughs him off, still tuning his guitar. You know what, John? he asks Prine. Where do you think Im headed to when I get back to the hotel? Just because your heartless wife aint got the good sense enough to know when her man needs a little company dont mean all women dont have a connection with their husbands. My Annie is always gonna be there for me. And you know what else? So is this song. So lets get back to recording, and you just shut your trap, hear?
John Prine storms out of the room, and then Denver notices the camera is still rolling. He cracks a short, nervous smile, abruptly falling back to his tuning. But there are lines in his face and his brow is furrowed, and I could tell that his smile was forced. The footage then cuts to Denver singing Berkeley Woman in the restroom of the studio, washing beer out of his hair from a party the previous night.
A very long scene in which its silent but for John skipping rocks across the lake behind the recording studio, slowly begins to fade out into still photographs of himself in the studio; pictured with a broken acoustic guitar with the f-hole cracked outward, pictured with Lee Holdridge as the two are polishing string instruments in the foyer of a hotel, pictured with Annie, kissing her on the cheek with one hand slipping a lazy tulip into her hair behind the ear, all as We Dont Live Here No More comes on and the credits start to roll.
Watching all this, I was really touched by John Denvers warmth both as a songwriter and as a human being. The love he has for his wife Annie is one of the film's many very subtle joys. Whether hes talking to her or simply about her, his face is just a bright conflagration of elation. It makes me hopeful, you know. And Neil, I mean what I say when I say that Im going to set myself straight.
Ill make everyone proud of me, just you wait.
Hey, the guards all have their rifles aimed at a crowd of inmates just off past the weight benches. Im going to go see what the deal is. Have a good Christmas, Neil.
Your friend,
Hidden.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
kay:
Yep, Arizona and Antarctica are both deserts by definition. Polar desert. We are high, dry, and windy. Though what I would not give for a tumble weed to blow by right about now... 
kay:
Yes, you hit the nail on the head in so many ways I cannot even begin to say. Actually if I had not loathed my boss as much as I did...I never would have come here, so there is the sunny side up perspective. He was just a bad man though.