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The music "The Sundays" aren't the type of music that force my attention. In fact, they're so self-effacing that they actually just provide a platform for my own thoughts rather than draw attention to themselves. They're gentle vehicles without engines. And they drive me to the ocean's edge and Highway 1 any given afternoon. And there offer a giant expanse of sea for my mind to swim in, and with ease I settle into my vacant mind, and find myself rowing in an old boat on the Alte Donau, with a blue sky and white swans and black plugs in my ear bringing me Joni Mitchell and Tori Amos. then scott's in the hull of the boat, smiling at me as I row us under the bridge and towards the setting sky. then I'm on Mary Kaye's front porch, looking out over forested hills and feeling fresh and wild and well. then the kayak is rounding the bend towards Emerald Island, and the water is as clean as a pond in a tropical paradise. next I drift to the Mississippi, with lightning bugs and sweat and corn, watching fireworks reflect off the water in the heart of America. then i must be cresting on that white sea, for now i'm on the mountaintop, arms raised, tossing off a stone towards my village, smiling with Jeremy, and seeing for the first time my instantly favorite animal: the mountain goat. and her child goat. i must be catching a different current, for now i'm back in bed with a cold and fever. but i'm not afraid. i'm smiling. i stop questioning, "Will I ever be well? Will I ever be standing in those places again?" I feel that they're with me and a part of me, and just as real as the drab gray walls and the bamboo panels and my bright yellow bedspread. i'm not afraid. i'm on mary's porch and the alte donau and tahoe and timp. and i'm in this bed, smiling. The Sundays [2003-03-16]
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