I remember Walter Cronkite.
I remember seeing him cry at the death of JFK and cheer at the landing on the moon.
I remember him counting the death toll in Vietnam and chastise administrations for their involvement.
I remember his booming voice and his kind demeanor and I remember when he bid farewell to the anchor chair to move forward with his life.
Walter Cronkite was an icon of not just one generation, but several.
He embodied the sense of caring and fairness.
His voice carried with it the pride that wasn’t limiting.
He told it as it was and that’s the way it was.
There will not be his like any time soon and he will be missed.

I was reading Fatbluemans blog the other day. He talked about Stream of Consciousness writing. How he was going to try to write for an hour every day in an attempt to build a natural response to the urge to write, to express himself through the written word. To make it habit. An interesting perspective, I think, a way to get the words on the page without your mind getting in the way. I know that many writers have used this method. Joyce, Burroughs, Vonnegut. All of them trying to bypass the filter that is the ego, to end-run that natural reflex that is to self edit. Society imposes rules that cause us to over think our ideas, to weigh them against our experiences and then to restrict output to things that are structured. Structured by social dictums.. I think that is interesting and frightening at the same time, like a snake inside of your head. Waiting to strike at the words and the thoughts, to envenom them with doubt, and to leave them on the side necrotized and desiccated. Many have tried to use ‘mind-expanding’ drugs to achieve that state and only found that the connection between any thought and the paper was cut. What’s worse they couldn’t remember the ideas once the drugs had done their damage. Damage that left lasting Impressions like a smell that reminds you of something … something that eludes your touch .. something that you know you have seen and seen .. Is that what modern art is about? Removing those illusions of reality? Removing the inhibitions? Inhibitions? Interesting word when you look at it: to inhibit: to stifle: to block. And isn’t that what I am trying to overcome with this exercise. I have always had a problem spelling. An old friend John is a wiz at that. His parents were in the educational system and they stressed the need to be able to spell. And he has always taken a great deal of pride in that ability. I have always struggled with that skill, but I am getting much better. Once was a time where the spellchecker would scream at me with its accusatory red underline and now… now not so much. I guess it just takes practice. If you have read this to this point congratulations. I won’t burden you with more words… today.

BTW the only misspelling I've had to correct was the word frightening..interesting.

Kenny Rankin was such a fine talent who got so little real recognition. Such a clear and warm voice.

I met him twice. Once at a concert in Winter Park,Fl. He was standing at the back of the venue surveying the audience. I approached him and introduced myself.

I told him this story...

In the mid 70’s my mom happened to stop at Keller Music in Orlando. There was no one else in the store except for Kenny and his manager. It was one of those times where you happen upon something special, without knowing it. I was 15 years old at the time and wouldn’t know who Kenny was until several years later.

He was noodling on a guitar and I was drawn to just sit and listen. His friend looked at me with a grin and said "Why don't you play something off the new album Kenny"? Kenny broke into a magical rendition of the Beatles "Blackbird". I sat transfixed through that performance and was treated to several more songs. ‘Dear Prudence’ and ‘Haven’t We Met’ as I recall.

Finally my Mom indicated it was time to go. Kenny gave her a glare for interrupting. And we left him there playing in an empty music store.

Several years later I dated a woman that was a fan of a particular musician whom I had never heard. She said that my musical style was a lot like his and put on an album.

There it was.

‘Blackbird’