I’m letting myself find oulde musicks in the corners of the dark. I think there’s a heaven where some screams have gone…
I spent half the week with that old chuck berry song from pulp fiction in my head, repeating the line about tv dinners and ginger ale until i thought I might die from the madness of the dullness of it all.
Then in the pain–because it’s only the deep pain in my bones that i will follow to this place–i ended up drowning in zevon late last night. i had remembered a dream that followed me home from my nap on thursday afternoon where i was in heaven, or at the entrance to it. some kind of sandwich bar, with countermen and menus. i kept demanding to see him! that he! was waiting for me and knew i was expected. from a back room came a man with shoulder-length hair and beard. and eyeglasses. So. Not Jesus. Warren. Zevon.
“What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be back here. Get your ass back home. I’ll call you later.”
That was my heavenly welcome. No saint peter, no giant book. No angels or choirs. Just a which wich style place with old dead poets behind the counter. I can only assume when i’m actually due they’ll make it look like the all the stories.
i am the little old lady who got mutilated last night. The hurt gets worse. Yet my heart gets no harder. They didn’t tell it true about that part, you know.
Why do i play warren’s music when it kills me like this? because it also is where i live the best, i suppose. Someone called Maria’s name. I swear it was my father’s voice.
Oh, honey. Little Earthquakes is a bone-shaker at the best of time, and the Zevon is even more so for you. Listen to some recorded thunderstorms, maybe? Wind noise? White noise? Lyrics that don’t open these doors when your body has nowhere else to run.
Oddly enough, though, it’s therapeutic. I listen to enough of it to sort of take me to that place where I have to mourn the things I have to mourn.
Then I put on the “pull me out of it” stuff– Raglan Road into Van. First a maudlin Van like Motherless Child, into Street Choir then upjumping happy stuff like Days Like This and the primal joyful idiocy of live Caravan.
And I feel SO much better.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of like Ponfarr set to music.
Twenty five bucks and a cracker is Not Enough, In other words.
But now–and i do not kid you–I am hungry for saltines.
Pardon the brevity and the typos. This was sent from my iPhone.