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Song 1 | Aug 03 2003

Before listening to the first song, I did the dishes, put away my laundry, wrote to six people, showered. There could be nothing else I needed to do. Then I moved the machine in bed with me. The wires. I wanted to be in bed when I heard.

There is nothing to say of music. This one was like a merry-go-round that is both faster and slower than merry-go-rounds are. Perhaps this could be filmed with cameras which themselves spin. I saw a blur of trees. Dabs of green. We had been brought there blindfolded. When it was over, the blindfolds were put back on, but it was not scary because we knew we would sleep in the car on the way home.

On the train, I studied the case, the artwork, and saw how you glued two images back-to-back and taped the titles in the center of one. Such heartbreak. This is how it is these days: the happiest thing makes me sad.

Across the aisle sat a mother with two young sons. One of the boys was standing on the seat, looking out the window. I was scared he was going to fall backwards and smash his head on the floor of the train. It would not have taken much. He kept losing and regained his balance. His mother, seeing this, would periodically grab the pocket of his shorts. I set my bag to the side and quietly got into a kind of sprinter’s position, one foot back, ready to push off should the boy begin to fall. In my mind I could see him falling. He didn’t fall.