Last night (that means Wednesday; if you look at the time stamp, I was having another bout of insomniamania) I met some friends for a drink. At the bus stop, at only 8:30 pm and not even at the scabbier bus stop on the Pape line, I was thrilled to find a genuine eccentric. A tall, white-haired, black-garbed, cadaverous gentleman of indeterminate-but-older-than-me age was carrying a white plastic boom box, which was blasting big band music. All I could think was, "Right ON." Because you know what? I don't have an I-Pod. I don't want music in my head. I want a soundtrack that follows me around. You know, such as has been mocked in many comedic sketches. That's right. It's not that I want to sing and dance myself, but I genuinely, sincerely, would like a few swelling strings once in a while. Of course I don't need to hear "I Melt With You" when I'm looking at a cheeseburger - I don't want to be a walking commercial. I just want further illustration of how I'm feeling and what I'm going through.
It was good to get out of the house today, to get some work done at the local coffee shop, where I didn't have my choice of music, but what was chosen was just perfect. How did they know I needed to hear Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros "Johhny Appleseed" as an antidote to what's been floating around in my bean lately?
Solomon Burke has moved into my head, and he is taking up ALL the room. If there was ever a time I don't need a large, iconic, seventy year old black soul singer who is the father of 21 children, 84 grandchildren and 17 great grandchildren; but more, who can sit on a throne and blow people's freaking minds by getting so DOWN he has to stand up in my head?
Now is the time.
These days, if I'm not swaying back and forth and getting down to "Valley of Tears (the Nashville version)? I'm heading "Up to the Mountain", even as I match socks and use a toothpick to clean around the sink.
Okay, most days I don't have the energy to house the power of Solomon Burke in my head. He knocks me on my ass, and I need to stay there and hear what he's saying. I don't really WANT Solomon Burke in my head when I'm trying to do stuff like buy a sofa and write my Motherlode presentation and keep my toddler happy. Hosting Solomon Burke is exhausting. Especially when my own throne is a saggy sofa with fleas courtesy of Boo Boo.
So here - fleas, Boo Boo until you're flea-less, Solomon and even you, Tymon Dogg who is reminding me that my mandolin is getting dusty -- please, please please -- can I have some peace and quiet?
Until further notice, the space between my ears has a "back on October 29th" notice, unless something else decides to squat in there.
Of course, there is this closet in the back of my brain. It's tiny and airless, and has an old-fashioned tarnished brass lock with a skeleton key in it, and that is where I am keeping your questions for Boo Boo until the end of the month. Please do write and ask him anything, understanding he is a little black kitty cat who spends too much time over at quote sites. I'll submit the questions and the Pounce: hellomarlagood at hotmail dot com.
B: 'Scuse me you. What are this doing on my basket?
Doodles: (Says nothing because it is a stuffed cat.)
M: It's Josephine's cat. And Josephine's basket. Now get your chemically flea-treated crawing itchy self off the basket and away from anything you might get fleas on.
B: Never mind. I fit. What did you say? I was too busy getting over my snit and focusing on my comfort to listen to you.
M: At least get away from Doodles.
B: (two long, slow blinks)
B: Well, you've got a bee in your bonnet, haven't you?
B: Or, (snickers) a flea in your bonnet! Hey Doodles? Get it?!
M: (holds herself and starts moaning "Everybody wants to send me down to the Valley of Tears", complete with an "I can't hep myself, I'm gonna say it say it say it again."