Day Forty-Four

Man, I fucking love this song.

I left my iPod on shuffle at work today, and it shook me with nostalgia. I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. They were hidden under my seat and in the spare tire well in the trunk; my companions were expected to exercise their lower abdomen hovering over the thick, clumsy carpet of music beneath their toes.

I remember walking out of the Princeton Record Exchange, holding the giant yellow smooth plastic bag with nervous expectation; almost running to my car to replace whatever was in my CD player with this new collection of music the quirky and adorable employee had sold to me - she was the only unsnobbified employee of this beautiful establishment which actually sported a fucking wait list for new hires; no High Fidelity in her. She first recommended to me Alice Coltrane, about whom I am still undecided, but hey, she was definitely cool and cute and talked to me and I was still pretty fucked up about that other bitch I used to know who didn't direct me toward a positive reality, so I was flattered.

I remember falling in love with this girl driving on the interstate; or perhaps it was more of a diversion of love feelings from she who scorns - but who was once the inspirer of some sort of deep passionate thing which seems now undefinable - to she who accepts. The one who smiles. Who could you not fall in love with the person who gave you Otis Redding.

But then I remember driving my Subaru along the dark, rural roads of my youth; before I had an iPod, when my car was a litterbox of CDs. Stoned, sad for some reason or other. Probably regretting my inability to transcend from friend to feverish-lover-beast with one girl or another. Can't remember exactly who.

The amalgamation of the pace, the tone, the crowish voice; that love-crow. I remember looking at my Camel and the Dunkin Donuts terrible styrofoam cup in its holder, feeling tears begin to well...

What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't even listening to this song. It comes off as a regretful or nostalgic ballad; creates this dark, sad image; certain word clusters could occasionally even be found in these kind of songs. I used to smoke toward this image; this pensive and still kitchen table under a bright light with a half-full ashtray. I was there, hovering over a steaming cup of coffee, all alone, wondering how it had all gone wrong, and I would someday take a drag and as I inhale discover the mysteries of the world and my life - I think I would begin writing my novel there, too.

I couldn't have been more of a fool; a bluthering idiot. This song is romantic, and its not about the coffee and especially not about the cigarettes. Cigarettes aren't romantic. It's about having that thing that eternally connects you with another; that secret you don't even realize you share. Cigarettes aren't romantic.