by Tyler Clair Smith
I discovered Johnny Cash all over again on September 12, 2003.
Though the grit and gruff of Cash’s baritone were not uncommon features in my childhood, I can’t say I understood his unique genius at the time—nor the nasal beauty of his compatriot Willie, for that matter. Through the years, though, I had grown to appreciate Johnny, if only as a nostalgic reminder of growing up in rural West Virginia. Eventually he was obscured by my high school fling with cheesy Christian rap-core. (Sighs).
Remember. It was September 12th. (Remember?) I found American IV somewhere. At the time, Johnny wasn’t yet hip again. That would come about 2 years later (mainly) in anticipation of the biopic Walk the Line. Anyway. It was September 12th. Despite the not-overwhelming-hipness of Johnny at the time, my friends and I, college students, licked the dust from the scratches of an American IV CD and gave it a spin. Again. And again. And again. All night long. I was shocked by Cash’s ability to reinterpret those old tunes in mostly painful ways. He sang with such honesty it was hard to believe he hadn’t penned them all himself.
The next morning I woke to discover that he had died that same night.
The same night a bunch of culturally savvy college kids discovered him for what he was, he died.
As if it was time for him to go. As if another generation had recognized his genius, securing his place in history, in the American subconscious, or whatever, et cetera.
Anyway.
So, now I want to talk about 2 summers ago, because that was when I killed someone else.
Have you read Slaughterhouse Five? I hadn’t. Then I did and everything changed. I wasn’t sure whose hand I wanted to shake first, Kurt Vonnegut’s or Kilgore Trout’s. I first hated war when I read that book. My love affair with humanity started then too. Also, that was when I started to hate humanity. (Weird.) Slaughterhouse complicated me. It wrecked me. I became a contradiction and I started to like it, the way Vonnegut seemed to. I shared in his outrage and idealism, rising to that peak, then jumping to shatter myself on the rocks of despair below. I know, I know. It’s stupid and it doesn’t make sense and maybe it’s a bit dramatic, but there it is. Anyway, the next month Kurt died.
So it goes.
Once upon a time in the Midwest I wrote a column and I got paid for it, which was funny because it started with a lie. I told some editor lady that I was a writer, which wasn’t true, but I had good intentions. Anyway, she said well I should send her something. And I did. Then she went and published it and kept doing it for a while under the title “Miracle Valley.” She paid me fifty bucks a week for that.
Into the Hill is paying me millions to resurrect that lark.
But the point is that it wasn’t two years later before that paper went to the great birdcage in the sky.
Which is my point. Every time I get involved, death seems to follow. Which I guess may mean nothing. Or it could mean everything. Who knows?
Anyway, all I’m saying is I’m not sure how much longer ITH has now that the harbinger of doom has signed on.
Just saying.
t clair is a writer, musician, cartoonist and minister (believe it or not) residing in Prattville, Al. His preferred forms of menace are writing, musicing, cartooning and ministering. He very rarely blogs at www.iblogodei.com, but it doesn’t hurt (much) to visit.
November 20th, 2008 at 5:11 pm
Hm, it was shortly after becoming your writing partner that I became quite ill…
Well, if the end is near, it was worth it, T Clair. I will commiserate with Johnny about the cause of our demise. Kurt, on the other hand, I doubt I will meet where I’m going. On the other hand, all things are possible, so it is said and so I have observed.