Fifty years ago today James Dean died near Paso Robles as his Porsche Spyder poughed into Donald Turnupseed’s ragged Ford, and the actor from the edge of the world became an icon and we kids thought we might ride to freedom on his doom.
Too many half centuries bear down – the dawn of Elvis, the death of Charlie Parker, Miles and John Coltrane, "Be-Bop-A-Lula", Night of the Hunter...
How much...
How much...
How much longer
(I had a pony, his name was Lucifer)
My TV proves that LA is on fire yet again, and I may have to ponder all this mortal history through the smoke-filled night.
The secret word is Conceivable
(Over on the mighty comments board, Billy Oblivion has a point, and hipspinster blogs on the fires http://hipspinster.blogspot.com/.)
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1 comment:
thanks for sharing this. felt the emotion. that's a good thing. :)
peace,
zayne
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