A story.
A decade of impulses, pressures, alterations, creations; miseries, prayers, mcdonalds, acids, coca cola, ended loves.
Daniel Johnston was-is the most compulsive American writer of the last ten years. Without any fear of contradictory rankings, with a trembling hand, we leave these lines like this; because his rise to myth, his elevation to the songwriter's Olympus is nothing but the commodification of an endless pain, too great for dollars and fame to make him worthy of being anything else.
When his heart left his chest and there were no more reasons, then Daniel, the shy boy, transformed into something else, different. The collections of comics on the dusty piece of furniture and the electric organ are relics of a past that becomes embers, consumed by the urgency of life.
Our words, anyone's words, only soften that mental process of an infinite man, tied to himself with a double thread: reason and sentiment.
Hi how are you?
Simple as drinking a glass of water, unreasonable as 30 acids dissolved on the tongue, the sound of this collection of poems frames a story that too often, always, was not fully understood.
Beyond psycho-sociological investigations, what remains to our ears is embarrassingly true: because the real feat of this white boy, son of a Catholic family, who found his demons more than the right saints in religion, was to lay himself bare before everything and everyone. And so, so much, it was not possible for anyone, ever.
We think of "Casper", the story of the gentle ghost who smiles through his personal hell, as a summary of the entire saga. We think of the friendships in our lives, the potential fragility, the looming collapse, the powerful-weakness of everything that surrounds us.
The superstructure is everything; the rest, what little remains has a mixed taste: hamburger, joy, sadness.
Without words.