(watersong)
“…write the song after the tracks are made.”[1] To become a better stalker. Hello ruby in the dust.[2] Not to chart a Mississippi—neither by charm nor design will the river be known—but to tap the creeks and streams that nourish a vast watershed. The Human Sunrise Old man and woman hugging each other at the corner of Eglinton Avenue and Oriole Parkway. Not some perfunctory hi or bye, but really clinging. Melded together. White hair. Pine-twist fingers. Only moving to get a tighter grip on each other’s back. Thirty seconds. Forty. A long light. Grief? My first thought. But when they finally pull apart a little, they’re smiling. Drive off feeling halfway drunk, so moved and blessed to have seen it. Our Cures Falling asleep finally to soft, intermittent rain. Waking when it becomes harder and more regular. Home The old musician returning time and again to a handful of familiar chords, melodies, rhythms. His aural home. How gradually the listener finds a home there too. The deep hospitality of that.
[1] Paul Simon, interview about Graceland
[2] Neil Young, “Cowgirl in the Sand”