This Blog is all about the Tour. Music, places, people, guitars, blues. Life. Art. Ideas. The journey. So when something messes around with that, it messes around with me. It breaks my stride. It breaks the conversation in ways that I don't want it broken. Our conversation. This will, I hope, be my last word here about censorship. Because I'm not going to allow the subject to eat the page.
To think and speak freely. My art derives from that act, depends on that ability, as a first premise. Donald Trump can say negative things about members of the world's largest religion, and these things are reported in detail, on every media platform in the world.
So I'd like to know who is censoring my Facebook pages. Who decides which ideas and language are Bad for the World? Obviously- in some quarters- my ideas are not seen to be as safe as Mr. Trump's. As I am fairly sure that I have Friends and Followers from all of the world's major religions, it's hard to point fingers. Some crazy, right wing Christian cult? Living in a compound somewhere near 29 Palms? A Republican plot? Tories, sore that they lost the election in Canada? Nah, they don't care. They don't mind the words "hard ass." Or if they do, they didn't read the phrase on my Artist page, and didn't complain about it if they did. No, it's not real people: it's a computer subroutine. An algorithm carelessly released into the world by people who likely haven't experienced much of the world. Artificial Intelligence. It's not smart. Nor is it clever. It cheapens the platform, restrains the dialogue, and demeans the intelligence of not only the readers- but also the broader culture in which they participate.
I like to think I express myself fairly responsibly. Context and placement of the right words. Like surgery. Cut here. Now. And sometimes the blood runs off the table. And sometimes it's not real blood, but ideas escaping. Little expressions picked up in the schoolyard. An adventure. A revolution. Or a bottle of red wine shared over conversation. Here's the latest (and last to be reported upon) piece surpressed on my Face Book artist page...
Osgoode, Toronto. Trying to scrape silver off this hard ass town. Somebody took ten shots yesterday, just upstairs and around the corner. This is a place where the stories crawl past me. Or walk past me, done up in perfume to punch. My imagination would have me elsewhere: a younger man with fewer stories. More disposable income. Walking past. Spare change for a busker.
Some days there are people who jump in front of trains. And some days there are people who don't. Walking past. I don't see you, I don't hear you. "I heard your music, and I changed my mind." Driving down the highway is like that, too. When you cut beneath the grime and hit the clear sky you can be anybody. Or somebody. You can find yourself, or chase after your own soul. Win or lose on your own terms. Osgoode.
The life and death of a Tour. The National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. Wrapped earlier this week in a small, Toronto club. It's had me on the road most of the year. Ten provinces, and as many states. My Lincoln says it wants oil. My arms are getting acupuncture for pain, and Osgoode is waiting. I won't jump in front of the train, but I will imagine it: warm with soft seats. My personal train, headed for the distance. February and March will be shows in Chicago, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Get on board! Like this Page to follow me on the Blues Highway.
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