I’ll See You In My Dreams

For a few weeks, I’ve felt run down, sore and exhausted. I wish I had time to take a day off and lie still while charming young things bring me restorative chicken liver pate and tropical fruit. I don’t. No matter. My co-worker got hit by a dump truck that launched his car fifty feet into a telephone pole, totalling the car and cracking his rib. He’s sitting at his desk now, telling us about the Have A Heart trap that survived the various impacts that turned his car into crushed metal. It’s a fucking miracle! Well, shut my mouth.

I haven’t been able to bicycle to work. Yesterday was the sixth successive day topping 90 degrees, and almost every forecast contained some mention of lightning. It’s raining lightly now. That’s why today is the only day this summer I’ve worn suede shoes. Because, you know, because.

The Weavers at Carnegie Hall has been on my mind. Daria, Todd and I spent a lot of time alone together, singing these songs. In my lifetime, the way people listen to music has changed fundamentally. Let’s call this American History: our parents weren’t wild about television anyhow, so they’d put on records. A listener had a respectful, attentive duty to records: motion was limited to what did not disturb the needle for 24-26 minutes, and sometimes all a person did was hold still and really listen. Sometimes, we’d sing along and often dance. Sometimes we’d dance to the radio. Until we started buying our own records – no mean feat since we didn’t live anywhere near a record store – we had this intimate relationship with our parents’ music. Thus, somewhere in the back of my child mind, I know every note, every catcall, every thunderous cheer of The Weavers at Carnegie Hall.

Because I remember my father coughing on his restaurant breakfast and whispering, “That man over there – he was blacklisted by McCarthy” and because I’ve been in a foul mood since warmongers started flinging around the word traitor in 2002, and because there was never any reason to invade Iraq, I see this treachery for what it is. Somewhere, there is music and we should be dancing.

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