I love living draped in music--like when I'm off my plane in the Los Angeles international airport, and walking down one of those anonymous walkways on a sliding sidewalk in the deep throes of the critter, surrounded by tunnel and little faded pastel tile art, indistinguishable after years and travels, a veiled, vain artistic 60s indescribable something of nothing; I'm hearing lounge jazz, cool storm quiet jazz soothing me from the hours of ardors and hardships, hours of cramped seating in coach and the turkey sausage turns out to be beef, not that anyone has a death wish for fowl more than cow, and the soothing jazz seems so urban and calm and real and I'm walking on a cloud of moving sidewalk, dissolving after Sigur Ros music box sounds, sushi and sleep into a 6 a.m. drive from an airport Marriott towards the court downtown, listening to unknown self-released punk bands while a girl tells us she absolutely loves this band or that band, and then Bowie sings that there's a "Star Man" waiting in the sky who'd like to take us with him but he's apparently somewhat fearful of blowing our mind, and I've left my Flannery O'Connor short story collection in the bag during the plane home because for two dollars I can hear Cyndi Lauper sing "Time after time" with Sarah McLachlan and I think it's cool that Cyndi plays the mountain dulcimer and I remember a Rolling Stone review of her first concert in London, all "girls just wanna have funhouse" and she said, reportedly "you want ditsy, well you asked for it" and it's funny how you never hear about Robert Hazzard who played that song with his Heroes but it's just as well because Lauper improved the lyrics in the gender switch and now I'm listening to Ben Folds serenade "Gracie", whom I hope is a daughter rather than a schnauzer but although I hoped to last until the last two songs when Fiona Apple sings and you know, I think that Fiona is right that it's all not real, although I would have chosen a more poetic way to say it, if I were of a poetic mindset, and yet who could resist changing channels, I certainly couldn't, when the classic rock channel offered:
"A Million Miles Away"
in rapid succession, which is enough to make me high and I never understand self-medication because books and music are my insert-drug-here, and I'm working up to a real post about a woman I admire who fights with anger on skid row, but the songs are just perfect only if they'd played the Records' "Starry eyes" it would have been a real 6 pack although I don't like beer often and then only Corona or Pacifico or something and that's not beer it's kind cervez-tea and I've changed the channel to listen to this Venezuelan woman called Gabriela Montes or some such on the classical channel who is going this amazing set of jazz improvisations on the Goldberg Variations and for a moment I've got this incredible crush on her, but not on her, on sound, I am in love with sound and sound loves me back and I sense her fingers on the keys although she is actually like a star, dying, and light years away and I hear her performance from months ago as if she were half-a-light-year from my sphere and perhaps that is only right and I don't really have a crush on her, it's just appropriate as a topic, but instead I have this massive infatuation with sound, and I find my car and put my album by the artist eM in, who plays this really minimalistic electronic music which gives one this sense of the rapture in the silence because I am convinced that while trumpets are all well and good for knocking down walls in Jericho and I'm proud I wrote a MIDI song using trombones, I think that Glory comes not so much with angelic voices as with angelic silence, not lamb-silence but the quiet of grace and love because love so often uses no words, but just wordlessly is and subsists and moves immanent and with a huge hug, but I turn to public radio after a while, and Terry Gross is replaying an interview with Patti Smith and I'm driving in my Hyundai Sonata in 2005 in a business suit, day-worn after a day of travel, pounding my fist against the dash and singing G-L--O-R-I-GLORIA! GLORIA! and thinking about poets who read wherever poets can read and then I'm watching me and you and everyone we know this wonderful movie and perhaps I can have a crush on Miranda July but mostly I have a crush on the quiet ambient music on the soundtrack and I am awash in sound, sound lives all around me, it's my barcalounger recliner, my drapes, my shades, my lineoleum