One two four two one two four five four six four two one.
There are three hundred songs on my tatty, first-gen iPod touch, which I can plug into my car. A semi-permanent state since iTunes ‘upgraded’ to something so slick I don’t really care to interface with it anymore. A musical museum of a few months ago when I was healing something -shit, I’m always healing something- and all that jazz was the right idea. I know every note of every tune, each burdened with moods, moments, stretches of road.
Accompanied me tonight, loud and rocking, playing softly as a ghost in my head through…well, look at that: another work day of the transactions that keep us alive. Those are my stats at the top. How many humans in my look, touch, breath, moment, from dinner with a friend at a reasonable hour that grew to her boyfriend and his coworker, then shrank to me and his coworker who held the Camel in her hand: precious, needed, but unlit we parted. Afraid to offend? Alone a few moments -five songs- to the next breathing entity of us, changing shape eight times in the four plus hours. If you must know, this is love. This air exchanged as we minutely grow old together, attention and presence given and taken freely.
I did not count the house party at Ellery and Harvard. The overspill of guests clumping in the cool night air on the porch and knobbed brick streets; hands occupied with cigarettes and drinks. But I admired those hips finding music leaking through the walls. I did not tally those waiting for green lights with me. Though I saw the trio of young women turn their heads to take me in, each at a time. We wondered together (you wonder about anyone, anywhere in a car at that hour). More humans but we did not share the air. Safe home. Begin again.