|Photo credit goes to my brilliant nine year old sister Nica.|
"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got till it's gone"
The Counting Crows have been there for me for a long while.
I remember being at my Aunt's wedding, ten years old, junior bridesmaid in a silk gown, belting "Big Yellow Taxi" out with all my might. It was a ridiculous song to sing at a wedding, one so completely out of context that I found it oddly suitable. Of course, I knew very few accurate lyrics, so I improvised where needed.
Ironically enough, the same song played overhead while I sat across from a gorgeous guy of eighteen, with eyes the color of water on a tropical vacation flyer, and a smile that could melt gold. He, whom had pursued me with a comfortable amount of attention. He whom I had firmly ignored, not allowed a place in my head, let alone my heart. This particular moment, he was telling me about his new girlfriend. I nodded enthusiastically, giving the appropriate "She's lucky". Then I noticed the music and I closed my eyes and whispered "I love Counting Crows". He looked up from studying the table and I said a quick something to the effect of never mind.
"Take a holiday in Spain. Drink my worries down the drain, fly away to somewhere new"
The song "Holiday in Spain" reminds me of vacations with my Dad. Maybe it has to do with their best album being named "August and Everything After" but the Crows have always reminded me of Autumn, and with autumn, consequently camping trips. Bumping along the highway sitting in the van next to my Dad while he played songs my mother would have considered inappropriate. Apples, bonfires, chilly air, flame colored leaves. And the Counting Crows. I suppose this song is an odd one to have remind you of a dad, the drinking and suggestiveness of it would imply so. But maybe it has to do with that time when I got sick from overdosing on sugar and my Dad left his friends and card table to come lie under the stars talking with me and my younger brother. I only half minded the Tequila breath. My Dad has the ability to make anything better. Even though I am past the phase where he is flawless, I still firmly insist he has the power to right a great amount of wrong.
"The smell of hospitals in winter and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters but no pearls"
There are those months and years that go on and on and you find yourself searching for meaning in life's madness, grasping at what little hope you can find in those long and gray days. A Long December is about that feeling. Tired, worn down and stretched out. But hopeful of a brighter year coming. Decembers are always like that, at least for me. They give you a chance to review the year, and set goals for the next. The holidays can be either intensely lonely or incredibly exhausting. Sitting on public places during the holidays, slowly drinking coffee and watching people run around in their costs, with agendas, walking home from the train with briefcases, teenagers with dark circles under their eyes due to staying up all night cramming for finals. The hopeful looks on the faces of children. It's not such a bad month.
"Every night these silhouettes appear above my head. Little angels of the silences climb into my bed"
There's a funny feeling as the clock strikes midnight and you find yourself awake. Some times tears find you when you least expect it. The moon shines down into my bedroom from the picture window, and my breath is ragged with emotions that will never find their way out of the maze inside of my head. Why does it seem like everything you ever worried about hits you when your house it quiet and you have nothing but the clicking of the ceiling fan's gentle clicking to remind you that you can actually hear. The faces of people I have loved and lost are a carousel in my imagination. I wiggle my toes,cans see the garish Christmas lights outside the window. Here it is, December fourteenth, for a few more minutes at least, and we haven't had an inch of snow in Chicago. Oh great, here, I'll be up another hour at least contemplating global warming and green house gases. I am an insufferable insomniac. Have been for years. Used to sit in a chair and count how many times the streetlights flickered. That's the funny thing though, this near the city it's never really dark outside. The sky has this orangish cast from all the city lights that are still glowing. This isn't the way to stay awake all night. I much prefer walking down to the lake, or a river at least, listening to street musicians, and seeing my breath in the chilly December night air. I like dancing along brick paths, and watching the water reflect things. But that isn't an option on most nights. Instead I'm locked here in my bedroom with the ghosts of yesterday. Staring at the ceiling, with all these voices tumbling around in my head. Ask my best friend, I never make sense at night.
Angels of The Silences is a ballad for all those nights I've been up, not certain what I'm doing, but definitely not sleeping.
What do you think, should I write more music memory essays?