Getting ready for the "Green-eyed Soul Searching Tour"
It’s a week before I hit the road for a month. I’m going east—Ontario and Quebec mostly—which is a bitch of a commute from the prairie. So I’m trying madly to get things done before I leave: settle arrangements, make calls, plan routes, send emails, see a few friends before I leave. I hurry and rush, always thinking about the clock and getting far too excited: will I get everything done? Is there enough time? The answer is no. I am ultimately defeated. The world simply will not speed up, damn it. I am resolved to the alternative.
Slow down. Slow down until I find myself laughing. Slow down until I find myself looking for a long time at my lover. How many times have I glanced at him this week without ever really seeing him? “Honey, didn’t you notice my haircut?” Cliché, cliché, you hear it everyday. Happens all the time. My eyes are too busy reading the signpost over his left shoulder and daydreaming about the poetry growing between the cracks in the sidewalk across the street. I didn’t even notice the cut on his cheek.
So now,
that’s where I seek out rhymes
that I find in his laugh lines
those maps on his face
that engrave
his good times
I wrapped those lines in a wool blanket of a song (warm but itchy as hell) and will cradle it out to the east and back. And it will cradle me too.
Can’t wait to stun myself with another road trip, more unfamiliar highways, the hard couches of good hosts, and warm coffee between my knees in the car. Books on tape. A new album I’ll purchase the day before I leave. And then the music!
There is really nothing like the sound of a voice that sings every night. It is so warm and loose and tender and sweet and almost-but-not-quite-raw from singing every single night. Pretty soon singing is more natural than speaking because you can drive all day without saying a word.
My body and I thrill at the prospect of adventure, but we learn to slow down and absorb each moment before, during, and after this ecstasy if it is to be enjoyed and remembered at all. La la la.
Slow down. Slow down until I find myself laughing. Slow down until I find myself looking for a long time at my lover. How many times have I glanced at him this week without ever really seeing him? “Honey, didn’t you notice my haircut?” Cliché, cliché, you hear it everyday. Happens all the time. My eyes are too busy reading the signpost over his left shoulder and daydreaming about the poetry growing between the cracks in the sidewalk across the street. I didn’t even notice the cut on his cheek.
So now,
that’s where I seek out rhymes
that I find in his laugh lines
those maps on his face
that engrave
his good times
I wrapped those lines in a wool blanket of a song (warm but itchy as hell) and will cradle it out to the east and back. And it will cradle me too.
Can’t wait to stun myself with another road trip, more unfamiliar highways, the hard couches of good hosts, and warm coffee between my knees in the car. Books on tape. A new album I’ll purchase the day before I leave. And then the music!
There is really nothing like the sound of a voice that sings every night. It is so warm and loose and tender and sweet and almost-but-not-quite-raw from singing every single night. Pretty soon singing is more natural than speaking because you can drive all day without saying a word.
My body and I thrill at the prospect of adventure, but we learn to slow down and absorb each moment before, during, and after this ecstasy if it is to be enjoyed and remembered at all. La la la.