Peter worked a double today. He left the house while I was still groggy at seven am, and I'm not expecting him home until after midnight. He'll be gone again (if he can drag himself out of bed) at seven, never mind the time change. I've been hovering in a dark mood, and wading through the packed last two weeks of Drexel's graduate quarter has not helped in the least. This evening I went into town for a break from the stuffy silence of a long day alone in the cabin to shower and pick up a case of soymilk at the grocery store. (A special-order from January. Thanks for the fast service, Freddies.) On the way home, gloomy and shivering with frozen hair standing at odd angles to my face and Twiki's heater not really up to the job, I flipped on NPR. Although expecting my usual disappointment in the after-hours selection, I was desperate for something to fill the icy ride home.

In piped the grainy, warbling first line of Dylan's 115th Dream. It was perfect, a tiny miracle over the static, a stumble into music that slid seamlessly alongside a perilous state of mind and lifted it ever so slightly, without a hint of saccharine to mar the gentle nudge away from danger.


Anonymous said...

I am amused by your use of Dylan as a miracle mood lifter. Walter, Jimmy, Elaine all use the Dylan lifter regularly. Another generation using the same antidote without even knowing!

Daffodils are long gone, pears' white blossoms too - everything is bursting with green. Reminds me of March a year ago when we were with you and Peter.
Love from Texas KH

Annie said...

What a perfect description of what music can do -- a lifesaving move.

Winston said...

Hope you don't mind me sending a few folks your way while I expound on the name of your blog. I got here through amba...