August 3, 2003

Song 1

On the subway home I studied the CD case and saw how you glued two images back-to-back and taped the titles in the center of one.

Across the aisle sat a mother with her two young sons. One of the boys was standing on the seat, looking out the window. I worried that he might fall backwards and smash his head on the floor of the train. It wouldn’t have taken much as 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, right foot slightly back, right arm slightly forward, ready to push off should the boy begin to fall. In my mind I could see him falling. He didn’t fall.

Before listening to the first song, I did the dishes, put away my laundry, wrote to six people, and showered. There could be nothing else I needed to do.

Everything one says about a song is equally true and false. This one was like a merry-go-round that’s both faster and slower than merry-go-rounds are. Perhaps it could be filmed with cameras that spin. I saw streaks of green, a blur of trees.