I thought Townes Van Zandt would have been too old to have been alive today even without the alcoholism while looking at the number 1944. Thinking I may need to reorient myself towards time or maybe just get better at math. 1944 still seems like a long time ago. I listened to Delta Momma Blues for the first time in a long time today, realizing it's been a while since I've listened to him at the length in which I used to. Milieu changes, soundtracks follow. The end of last winter, when days felt shorter though the Ohio sun set late, I watched the reflection of the soft pink glow through my small, unpromising window bound by cinderblock. I listened and wept when my Oma died, though if he knew her he would never write a song about her because she would never let him, nor let any man so tousled or disorderly anywhere near her. I listened to him as snow melted in the month of March and as I convinced myself of divinity and spring in April, biding my time until Summer. On humid nights in Brooklyn I'd walk in cement coated, golden sidewalks, sticky and somber but happier than before, happier than now. I've realized lately that my lack of attention to lyricism and word choices. even of the artists I love the most, still rings true with him. I know the words, I've heard them too many times now. But the sadness and consolation in timbre and melody still ring the most important, and no man has a voice where this is accomplished quite like him. Sometimes, all you need is a voice, especially when words don't cut it. For so long they didn't and now they're starting to matter more, I listen more, I exhaust more, I search for more words to listen to. But TVZ, his Texan reclusion has guided me through the moments where pain is most poignant, and I long for voices the most. Here's a picture of him I like, so handsome!