I’m still going to get around to seeing the 2021 acclaimed documentary “Summer of Soul,” about the cultural impact of American music in 1969. I’m ashamed that I haven’t yet seen it.
But I just witnessed The Winter Weekend of Soul.
I saw souls saved. I saw souls restored. I saw souls nourished. I saw souls grow.
And I saw souls stolen. I saw souls crushed.
There is a Sunday night Wild Kingdom beautiful brutality about this. The crocodile wins. And the water gets bloody. We want to turn away. But we can’t turn away.
We revere the predator. But we have respect for the prey. Yes, there is a Circle of Life.
Souls crushed. Souls restored. Mine, certainly. For which I am very grateful.
Yes, it was exhilarating. But I found myself getting very quiet at the end of all four of those walk-offs.
Sudden death. But sudden life, too.
“Flamin’ eyes of people fear
Burnin’ into you.
Many men are missin’ much,
Hatin’ what they do.
Youth and truth are makin’ love,
Dig it for a starter.
Dyin’ young is hard to take,
But sellin’ out is harder.”
Nobody sold out. Nobody.
I want to thank The Great Game falettinme be mice elf agin.
It Was The Winter Weekend of Soul.