Depression is catching, like cancer.
That's right, you heard it here first, folks.
From me, MD of the Rain Forest shickle-shickle with the rattles. I am a closet West Senegalese and lover of the music of New Orleans, Dr. Longhair and Oscar Brown Jr., and when I feel really down, the poetry of French manic-depressive Charles Baudelaire. But first Oscar Brown Jr.
I heard an old ragman
Out making his rounds
Comin' right down my alley
Making sorrowful sounds.
Crying 'rags and old iron' and pulling his cart
I asked him how much he'd pay me for my broken heart.
I asked that old ragman
How much he would pay
For those big empty promises
you used to make
For a second-hand lovelight
That's lost all its gleams
And a couple of slightly used
second hand dreams.
'Rags and Old Iron
Rags and Old Iron
All he was buying
was just rags
and old iron.
How much in agreement are the poets.
Sin and soul.
Oscar Brown Jr., his broken heart his Broadway failures and his jazz.
Charles Baudelaire, master of forlorn sentiments and his diabolical masterpiece, Flowers of Evil. Flowers of sin. Flowers of the devil. Walking the streets with his whore, the coquette embarrassed, like a U. S. attorney general by all the naked statues around.
I'm poring over all the old pictures of dead black musicians who did so much to advance the cause of civil rights, and also long-dead Frenchmen who may have set civilization back 200 years, but started a new literary form all the same. And they all seemed to get it from Edgar Allan Poe, that poor bastard who suffered so damnably and still managed to start all of our modernism and the very first detective story, charmingly titled "Murder on the rue Morgue."
Don't put on any more airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there
And they'll really make a mess out of you.
Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
Not for nothing does Green Day continue to produce hits.
I walk alone
the only road I've ever known
I walk alone.
Giacommetti and his striding figure, stripped bare of illusions.
Existentialism puttied large..
Shelley and his broken lamp.
Diogenes in the wrong end of Athens, the thieves having stolen his lamp. Depressed. Yeah.
In the old days, people would get the blues.
Today, Valium and Prosac make short work of depression, up until these horrid drugs eat your brain.
For the memories of you
Are no longer sweet.
I just wish he would haul them
Up-down the street.
Rags and old iron.
All he was buying
Was just rags and old iron.
I have been accused at different times of having the mental processes of a Chinese person, though I am so white I come snowdrops.
There is the I-Ching:
If, just before completion
The little fox
dips his tail into the water
Nothing will further.
So all you depressed folks, get your tail out of the water.
Up on the bank now, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
No more depressing blogs.
Cajun and Chocolate
No longer dirty words.
"We are a family...”
Chief Gall, Crazy Horse, Mandingo, Confucius. Play that funky music, white boy.