I mentioned it weeks ago, when Aaron my friend made it OK to
listen to Enya again. I think I mentioned it.
In an aisle of the Goodwill in Albany he flashed me ShepardsmotherfuckinMoon. NO. I said.
His poise authoritative amidst the color-coded
sweater aisles. It clearly was not up for discussion. And so I’ve been living
in a perpetual musical dead zone ever since. This shit is like a lullaby for my
11-year-old self. Which in fairness I feel I deserve right now, all things
considered.
1991! The year Donnie Walburg is arrested for allegedly setting his hotel room on
fire in Louisville Kentucky. The year Eric Clapton’s son fell to his death, 49
stories from a NYC apartment. A year of Desert
Storm.
Strange to realize you’ve lived through history;
written already...sent to the publisher years ago. History books now outdated,
boxed in storage or already on the shelf of a Goodwill. On a long walk this evening I found myself wanting my
childhood back. Or at least an afternoon to visit my 11-year-old self. An
opportunity to be my own mentor. What would I say? Lighten up.
Recently I notice my ability to produce a genuine
smile at the grocery store checkout. I was not always capable of that, so I
mark this as progress. You ever see someone’s smile fade right after they turn
around? Waitresses are good people to catch in that.
Listening to Enya on headphones. Waiting for life
to happen. Or Homeland. It’s 9:56pm.
10 comments:
At 11 I had Duran Duran ("Girls on Film" and "Planet Earth" were on the table...) Choices were: porn star (ahem...I mean, model) or lost-in-space astronaut.
Perhaps Fiona Apple or The Tallest Man on Earth could help out with the musical cul-de-sac
Enya is the sound of winter sunlight pouring in through the south living room windows of my farmhouse in Tennessee. That's the place where I chewed through the very trap I had set.
I can still that light, and feel that time when I hear Enya today.
While I'm thinking of it - actually I thought of it yesterday - when you get around to planting peonies at World's End, make sure you spit into the hole before you set the root into it. This gives the peony a little bit of you to grow on!
this post really hit home for me - thank you! a few weeks ago, i got stoned and put on loreena mckennitt after not listening to her for around 1.5 decades and remembered how much fun i used to have dancing around my parents' house home alone pretending to be a gypsy-pagan-princess, then proceeded to dance around my apartment the same way. will have to do the same with enya now - thanks!
once again your realness shines through so strongly in your writing and i just truly enjoy reading what you write! thanks...
I was wondering if I could download Enya....now I feel I can! You. Are. The. Best.
Completely agree with you re non-genuine smiles...I kind of prefer it if they didn't bother in the first place and just gave me a genuine boot face.
Hahaha Enya love it.
How about Norah Jones? Waiting for the day when I can listen to her again...
The other comments made me chuckle too.
I always take something away from your posts.
Love your honesty and candidness, something not often seen in the blogging world...
Please keep 'em comin'!
I would have been 10 in 1991. And somehow Donnie Wahlberg's arrest escaped me, but I was oh so acutely aware of Eric Clapton's sons death. And the subsequent "Tears In Heaven." I would have hoped I was older than 10 to be so aware of a child's death. Apparently not.
What a year that was. My final year of high school, when mixed tapes mattered and songs became a soundtrack to life and love. Today I uploaded some of these oldies onto my iTunes; i finally feel mature enough to handle it. Yes I can have Def Leppard and on my playlist and I will dance ridiculously around the kitchen singing to my husband. Happy new year, blossom on.
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