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Southern political personalities, like sweet corn, travel badly. They lose flavor with every hundred yards away from the patch. By the time they reach New York, they are like Golden Bantam that has been trucked up from Texas - stale and unprofitable. The consumer forgets that the corn tastes different where it grows.
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Two of my favorite things are sitting on my front porch smoking a pipe of sweet hemp, and playing my Hohner harmonica.
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I want to tell you what it was really like to think death is imminent, but I can't. It's a taste in your mouth. And an emptiness.
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Good isn't my thing but Sawyer's important to me. Please remember I've got my limits and you studying my mouth like you want a taste is pushing me dangerously close to the edge of those limits.
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I'm not good at precise, coherent argument. But plays are suited to incoherent argument, put into the mouths of fallible people.
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No one's mouth is big enough to utter the whole thing.
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Fortunately, however, birds don't understand pep talks. Not even St. Francis'. Just imagine, he went on, preaching sermons to perfectly good thrushes and goldfinches and chiff-chaffs! What presumption! Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut and let the birds preach to him?
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I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.
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Warning: we may become so enamored with God's good gifts that we fail to worship the Giver.
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The moment that any life, however good, stifles you, you may be sure it isn't your real life.
