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June 30, 2001 good intentions   I'm sorry my self-pity has, of late, turned this space bitter.   By force of will (and a bit of luck), I have crawled out of a hole.   Here is what happened : First, I received a letter from my foster-child, Ngor Sene, of Senegal.   Actually, it was written by Ngor's uncle, Diaga, who can read and write in French.   Ngor is about the 4th or 5th child I have raised.   I find that the poorly nourished make sympathetic listeners so I write to them with pen most poison and they always see things my way.   In addition, my foster children are quite obedient and you can imagine my satisfaction when I read these lines:   "Your Godchild is still attending school and he is not drinking alcohol as you want him not to."   In truth, my missionary zeal advocating temperance was unnecessary--Ngor is a devout Muslim and wouldn't drink anyway.   But I like being preachy sometimes and Ngor doesn't seem to mind. I decided to relearn what little guitar I once knew so I got out my guitar and found inside the case some old lyrics I had written.   My favorite was "Hotel St. Barth Isle De France Blues (Good Intentions)."   It goes like this:                                I had a retro-premonition                                when i was liquor-brave.                                I dreamed the streets were shiny-gold                                but they're already paved                                with good intentions, Lord                                please tell me,                                am i saved ?                                You were a warning shot across my bow                                and I took it on the chin.                                I was welcome everywhere,                                now no one lets me in.                                All good intentions in the world                                can't wash away my sins.                                No lesson to be learned,                                'til I am in the ground.                                Six feet of darkness overhead,                                borrowed shoes and rented shroud.                                I pay the bill in good intentions                                and make my daddy proud.                                Never made it to the delta,                                but I've breathed the mountain air.                                Though I never saw a mountain,                                my memories took me there.                                Another place and time,                                good intentions--my cross to bear.

©  2001 by the beastmaster