music

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Music is like scent: one remembers.

One of my blog readers, Beth, brought me a turntable today.

At first, I listened to Simon & Garfunkle's "sounds of silence." But it wasn't enough. I put on an old Joni Mitchel album, but it was too whispy to engage me.

So I got into my old milk crates and found Cris Williamson. Particularly, I listened to "Native Dancer," the song I recorded myself accompanying on my flute for my daughter's memorial service.

There's a line on that album, "Funny how those moments come; it hits you: your life has changed."

Ah, Cris, my companion through these thirty years!

I listened to "Strange Pardise" and "Prarie Fire." I laughed, I cried, I danced, I played my flute.

Then, I pulled out a REAL Joni Mitchell album: "Miles of Aisles." With L.A. Express.

Oh, yesssss. I needed an older Joni, singing the old songs.

My flute got a work out tonight.

I can still sing! Thirty years of stupid smoking and too much silence, but I CAN still sing!

I'm home.

All that was missing in this process was music.

I have my music now.

I can continue this journey; I have my compass.

"Carrie" came on and I remembered something.

I was working at the Rennaisance Pleasure Faire in the Santa Monica Mountains near Malibu.

I was a bar maid, selling ale. Low cut peasant blouses, leaning over the bar, guaranteed very good tips. I slept in my Volkswagen.

Someone bought an ale from me. He said he was Carrie, from the Joni Mitchell song. I didn't believe him and brushed him off.

I finished my shift. I was exhausted. It's dirty at the Faire: lots of dust.

I was trudging back to my campsite, watching the ground, so I wouldn't fall.

I saw delicate, perfectly-manicured feet coming toward me. They were clad in preposterously-tall, stilletto sandals.

My first thought: how naive and silly, to wear shoes like that, here!

I looked up, past skin-tight, black pedal pusher capris.

I looked at the face.

It was Joni Mitchell! With Carrie!

I didn't say a word. I didn't react.

I just continued walking down to my camp.

I had completely forgotten that experience until I heard Joni singing "Carrie" on that turntable tonight!

Many other memories flooded me. Too many to share right now.

But: I am home. Music is the record of my memory.

I can find myself now. Because I will remember.

I'm Home.

Thank you, Beth.