Tangled

I have no desire to be a shepherd of men.

But, no, that’s not really true. Perhaps there’s nothing I’d like more than to be a shepherd of men, providing the men in question were willing to play the role of sheep. If they are going to insist on being men, however, no thanks; I want no part of that thankless job.

‘Shepherd,’ though, sounds like a humble enough job title, but is a ‘humble enough job title’ what anyone truly wants? A humble enough fellow, perhaps, but I’m not sure I fit that bill.

I don’t know, quite honestly, what I want to be or do, other than to sit quietly listening to Charley Patton and Roscoe Mitchell and some of these thousands of other people I have sitting around here waiting to be listened to.

But, you might ask (and you might be right to ask), can I really claim to be ‘sitting quietly’ if I am, in fact, listening to music, particularly music that some might describe as caterwauling or keening?

Point taken.

At any rate, a herder of sheep would, I’d think, have plenty of opportunities to sit quietly, or even to sit listening to music, provided he is allowed to drag a boombox and a bag of CDs with him out into the…what do they call them, those places where sheep roam about? Something bigger than a pasture. A range? Yes, range sounds right, or close enough.

I imagine, though, that a fellow would have to venture to far flung places to find employment as a shepherd, and I seriously doubt I have either the wherewithal or the qualifications to undertake such venturing or secure such employment.

Which leaves me in the same position in which I seem to find myself every Sunday night about this time: Here.