Rainbows and Ridges – Blaze Foley
I’m not sure why I first listened to Blaze Foley, but it was definitely Clay Pigeons, and it definitely had me from the first listen. From there, I went straight to Big Cheeseburgers and Good French Fries—because who would look at that track list and choose anything else?
Lockdown fucked me up. Plain and simple. We've all got our stories of survival. By late 2022, I began to feel the need for change. One option was Western Massachusetts, where two of my business partners lived. I had a chance to taste-test the area when I came along with my friend Lindsay for a workshop—we were both involved: she was participating, I was helping facilitate. We stayed in Holyoke. The workshop was in Easthampton. We drove from Cincinnati.
It was cold cold. We listened to a lot of podcasts about horrible people and one about a good person. We sang along to Magnetic Fields songs. (I'm writing this sentence now to link to the inevitable Papa Was a Rodeo entry down the line.) My stomach was still feeling okay. It was a lovely trip—work and friendship interwoven, a new place to meet, a good workshop to support, and good learning to be a part of. Momentum.
This was what mid-30s art friendship meant: no more closing down the Listing Loon on a Wednesday, chain-smoking and talking joyous, meaningless, critical shit. Now we do things with intentionality. With boundaries. With a plan. Destination camaraderie. 2022 might have been the year of the plan for lonesome me. Organic social interaction got COVID and died. I don’t know if I would have made it through if not for the coffee shop. You’ll hear more about the coffee shop later, I'm sure. I try to remember this version of me with kindness; he was handling a lot.
It wasn’t just about finding a new place. It wasn’t just starting over. It was about releasing myself from a proud, cherished, broken identity. It was my exit from an era—a time, place, and collection of friends so powerful I recollect with astonishment at our capability. It was my what’s next. Going to seed. Rest for my white-knuckled roots.
"Some days you win and some days you lose
A chair got knocked over, I got the blues
Some don't get any and some get to choose"
On our last night of the trip, we had dinner at a BBQ restaurant on Mt. Tom. The view was incredible—out over the valley below and the soft, rolling mountains beyond. It wasn’t sharp or jagged enough to be a real ridge—maybe one that had let its guard down. It felt like a special place. I felt it then, and I feel it every time I return. That night, I decided I was going to do it. I felt the gentle unflex of my roots not yet beginning to release, but ceasing to hold. It was a quiet relief.
The next day, in the car driving back to Cincinnati—just south of Columbus, on that stretch of highway familiar enough to start feeling close to home—we saw a double rainbow. Flat, empty farmland stretched to the horizon. Two perfect arcs of honest color—huge, as big as they could possibly be. We could see both ends if we turned our heads.
A few minutes later, I played Rainbows and Ridges. I held a vision of the Berkshire hills in my mind and started connecting dots.
This is a playlist I’ll be adding to over time. Each song comes with a journal entry of some kind—what that looks like might shift and morph as I go. I’m going to have fun with these. It’s a celebration of songs that make me feel all kinds of ways.