Every single morning at 8:30 for years Townes called me for our 'morning call.' Guy would usually bring me a cup of coffee, because he knew we'd be on the phone for at least an hour. He'd say hey babe. Townes was the only man I let call me babe. We talked about art and artists and history, especially Texas history, and Hank Williams and Lightnin' Hopkins and Vincent Van Gogh and Indians. We talked about the Bible and European ways and the sky that day and angels and ghosts and demons, and Dylan Thomas and the birds and his dog. We talked about all the different kinds of love, and he'd describe them in detail.
We talked about the language and words and poetry and songs. More often than not he'd read me his new poem of the day. Songs always had to work as a poem on paper first, Townes's rule.
We always agreed about what the first day of spring really was. He'd call and say, hey, this is it, and I would know exactly what he was talking about. I'd say, yep, was just thinking the same thing. We did that year after year. Sometimes he'd cry, sometimes I'd cry for him. When I told him he drank too much he'd say, hey, there are sober people in India.
We'd talk about the Andy Griffith Show. He couldn't watch violence on TV, only Nick at Night usually. Yet he'd say, if anyone touches you I'll slit their throat and drink their blood like wine. He'd make me laugh till it hurt regaling me with stories about his wildness. Or he'd let me cry till it didn't hurt. All he'd have to say was, aw babe, and that would work.
Sometimes I was spellbound. His words were always gentle and loving, but like in his songs, mighty words they were. Sometimes we'd fight about nothing, like the real meaning of the word innocence. Then we'd make jokes out of that word.
He let me in his soul and I let him in mine. I had the honor and privilege of having this noble wild soul in my life.
He called me his best friend and god-sister. I called him my best friend and god-brother. We always said I love you before we hung up.
This morning 8:30 came and the phone didn't ring.
-Susanna Clark
Taken from Song Builder: The Life & Music of Guy Clark
[reprinted on inside-cd-cover of POET: A Tribute to Townes Van Zandt]
