So I’m driving in the driving snow which goes from winter squall to squalor, and my winter driving instincts kick in and I turn up the volume. The deck is playing one of my terminal (perhaps interminable, not sure if I mean the kid that’ll kill you or the kind that goes on for ever, I’m sure the disc title is something like that; Terminal interminable disc for white boys in a blizzard). And the familiar chords start and ‘Sitting in a Dixon garden wishing you and I weren’t partin’ for the last time …’ Some songs are just hard to hear no matter how easy they are to listen to.
I could bitch about things, other things, the same things, I could invent things to bitch about. I’m not going to. I made it back before the heavy stuff started, though I left believing I’d miss it all and the pharmacy took their sweet motherfucking time (hmmmm, is the sweet an adjective for mother or fucking? It’s works better either way, not so much, however, for motherfucker).
I could make cocoa or better yet a mocha. In my mind you get that when you’ve been playing in the snow and your cheeks are red and your mittens are wet all the way down to your knees and all the other kids had been called home and there’s two snow forts in your side lawn.
There really are a lot of beautiful break up songs. James Taylor might take the cake for pretty break song. Fire and Rain not only became really popular and is real pretty but the girl dies. Like real dead. Like suicide dead. The Fuck James? Good thing nobody listens to you anymore.
The same thing is kind of true of love poems, I mean good ones. I love Neruda and Thomas, but their love poems are damn heavy handed, a lot of blood and turning of worms. I once sent a girl a love poem of Neruda’s in Spanish knowing neither of us spoke it. It was beautiful; the meaning, however, dark.
Ok, that’s it.
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