(Wednesday, April 8, 2020)
Last night I dream I am walking with some friends behind the beloved musician John Prine, through a beautiful city in Kentucky that looks like Rome. A holy city. We are heading to a spectacular cathedral or temple owned by his friend Bob Dylan. John holds hands with his soulmate Fiona, who trails after him slightly. He is furious about the coronavirus: the same powerful resistance he had to the Viet Nam and Iraq wars.
Day notes:
John died Tuesday, April 7, of the coronavirus at the age of 73. My heart is broken. He has been compared to Mark Twain, and I like that expression of honor. To me he always felt like an angelic being, writing stories and tunes at the highest level of compassion, honesty and poetic creativity.
His song “Paradise” is about his ancestral roots in Kentucky, a town where his parents were born, and since destroyed by the coal industry:
“And daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River, where Paradise lay?
Well, I’m sorry my son, but you’re too late in asking
Mr. Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away”