I’m listening to Lucinda Williams in the living room lit only by the glow of Fraiser reruns (muted, of course). My hood’s up because my feet are cold and I still have a childish belief that covering my head will keep all the heat from escaping my body and thus keep my feet warm. Of course, I also believed until I was much older than I am willing to admit that the crusts on bread had all the vitamins. My dad can be a convincing fellow when he wants to be.
Listening to Lucinda tonight is the sonic equivalent of curling your hands into loose fists under your chin and nuzzling your nose into the neck of someone who would never hurt you, someone who will pet the back of your head and promise that things will get better soon.
Things aren’t even bad, but inside I’m a pile of restless, resentful yuck. I blame the season change. Equinoxes fuck with my equilibrium or something. I know this because I have nearly nine years of archives as proof that the end of March always, always finds me uninspired and cranky and searching for something that I cannot define.
Having such empirical evidence is not as reassuring as it should be. Because, goddamnit, I’m fucking cranky. CRANKY. Typing it in all caps does not help.
But tonight I have Lucinda singing to me and each note feels like a sort of lubricant for the soul. I’m like the Tin Man and soon I will realized I had a heart all along. I expect that to happen sometime in May.