…thinking Tom Waits has taken up residence in my inner ear. Then I say to myself, just the lyrics, listen to the lyrics. But I can’t make them out. So to regroup before my feet hit floor I have this little fantasy about me and Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash just walking, strolling, at the North Country fair and summer is stretching out in front of us like a long pull on cotton candy.
Well, perhaps we all have our methods. We piece together our days as best we can. We keep together gas prices and a mother’s visit, a sibling’s sickness and tomorrow’s dental appointment. We like Jackson Browne, well not that much, but there’s that "World keeps turning around" song that stick’s a lit match of "maybe" into our afternoon. Enough so that we make it out of Zellers and manage to locate our car in the 40 acre outback. And maybe we sit for a while thinking we liked the curve of his voice and what sounded like slide violin, before the thick neck of time turns our heads back and all our flugelhorns start in.
Sometime’s I don’t like jazz. It can be so banal in it’s overachieving. So bloody world weary as to be dada. Instead, give me one clear note. Or give me hollow hardwood tubing and a light rhythmic rap that entrances–that calls me across a river. Give me wind and rain and monastery bells in the mist and an inner ear to hear the brittle pottery of bad memories breaking on rocks at the surf-edge of a new dawn.
Well, we move along into that mist, feeling our way, listening. But even one voice, when you’re lost, is like heaven calling. And two is…