Music, I remember my mother gave me music too. I remember those records, real records with the pop and hiss and the dust jackets fanned on the living room floor. She would listen every endless Saturday afternoon, the same records week after week.
Simon and Garfunkel, Janis Joplin, Don McLean.
And to me all the songs sounded like fall, like things ending, leaves blowing over dead grass, the cold ground, Leonard Cohen’s voice hollowed out by hope and despair singing like a bird on the wire like a drunk in a midnight choir I have tried in my way to be free.
When I heard this a great scream bloomed inside me.