Dear Departed Harry Smith,
Why couldn't I have been you instead of me? You have already accomplished all that I could ever hope to do with my microspan on Earth. You received a Solomon Guggenheim grant to live and work in New York City; you compiled the Anthology of American Folk Music; you kicked it with Dizzy, Charley P. and Thelonious; you produced the Fugs first album; you influenced the beats; you recorded the Kiowa Indians tripping cactus; you donated the largest collection of paper airplanes in the world to the Smithsonian; you collected Ukrainian Easter Eggs; you died in the motherfucking Chelsea Hotel.
And you made these films, with all those spare decades you had between momentous activities.
I would like a ticket back in time, please.