It could happen to us any day

This is one from the backseat of the car. It's also one that I will never tire of, that I stop everything and hop on for the whole ride, no matter if it's from the tinny Toyota radio or coming out of a sleek device. Is it the bass line, the loping stride of it, Carrack's buttery voice, that puts my head against the seat back, gaze out the window at nothing and everything. It wasn't the words; I wouldn't have understood the knifepoint of the lyrics. I do know now what I wouldn't understand back then: you'll have scenes breaking up over and over and over again. 

It's the end of the strain, the joy in your heart

I only have it in me to recycle today. But I did stumble across this randomly, which may be/can be/okay, I'm just remembering is a principle of this blog. This week, having my act together means barely feeding/clothing/cleaning self and staying focused. Is it the persistent sameness of each week/day/month(!!!) inside my head, inside these walls, inside the boundaries of Bryn Mawr, Ainslie, Western and the river? Lack of stimuli? Lack of scenery? Lack of--oh my god, I've lived in the landscape inside my mind for how long?

But it's changing. Outdoors is waking up, shaking off two feet of dingy snow, squinting up to the ever-higher-each-day sun to say, oh, YES, babe, we're here, we're ready, it's on, donkey kong, and kick February's glum backside. Hell, it's kicking more backsides than you'd see in an Underalls commercial.

Raw, dangerous to the shoes, and full of surprises for uncovered extremities, shouting in birdsong, and unfailingly unpredictable. But Jobim can describe it better:

Waters of March

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale

A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night

A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road

A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.

In dreams the world keeps going 'round and 'round

The 21st-century, vacuous, vacuuming, echo chamber isn't good for someone who is living in their mind a lot. There's too much information, sure, but it's what's unsaid that's worse, the impulses behind any pronouncement. The contextless void.

What we need is old-fashioned back-porch jawing and justifications, sipping on cheap wine coolers from around the corner. Those times are missed. People looking at people.

[Summer madness]

Since I don't know how to type out that synth sound for the title of this post, I'll just say "right on, man," revel in how g-d jazzy Kool & the Gang truly was, and hope I hear Herb Kent the Cool Gent play this on an upcoming summer Sunday afternoon. Long afternoons stretching into evening by the lake, Herb laying this out there. Yes, honey. Yes.