18 January 2007. Gentle sun this morning--why is that? Sometimes harsh and raking, today an infusion of golden light. Cold again in the night--white frost across the field, shapely figure in the dark, her agile scraping at a car window. Last night: Lonesome Valley. Not just a voice, but an entire being from the past--emerging almost miraculously from the screen of laptop...Mississippi John Hurt--his taut skin, lively eyes--many emotions, the subtlety of them all. A kind of rolling motion, too, as if he played from the shoulder, rolling into each note, each phrase. "I learned one number all the way through." In the dark of night, his mother's musician boyfriends asleep in the other room--always the sounds--breathing, light snoring. He takes up the guitar--very quiet. First notes--fingers follow what the heart must know.
One could weep.
"You've got to walk that lonesome valley..."
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