You know what I haven't done in a while? Yes, dishes. But I meant something more important. Not that dishes aren't important. Cause how would you eat if you didn't have clean dishes? Out of the box? Is that any way for a college graduate to behave?
I have not, in what feels like forever, written a blog entry. I know it's actually only been a number of days (okay, weeks), but for someone so obsessed with documenting her own importance in this measly little world, that is a paltry show of attendance.
Kris Delmhorst has been the soundtrack to my days lately. I love Kris Delmhorst in ways that defy gravity. She was on NPR last week, and hearing her talk about her music, and literature, and the world, lit my head on fire and reminded me what it is I love most about art: when it gives birth to other art. Her last album is called "Strange Conversations" and it's all based on very famous poets and their works. Some of the songs are tributes to a well-known rhyme and others are compositions using the poem as the lyrics. She is just brilliant. You must hear it. Kris is hands-down my favorite female Boston artist and her voice makes me a tiny bit homesick for Somerville -- Johnny D's, or the Burren even, or the MidE, or the subway platform where I asked her to marry me and she giggled. I was serious -- in a way. I want our art to get married. I think the loftiest compliment I could receive as a writer is to have a musician I love render my words into song. You can listen to the spot she did on All Things Considered that I heard while driving... you should listen. She speaks and sings with equal relaxed ease about literature, love, life and music. Like she's talking about the weather.
Kris played with Red Bird not too long ago at the Tractor -- a fabulous seated acoustic show, along with bandmate Peter Mulvey, another Boston folkie I cherish. Their music is such warm and barefoot goodness, long-haired gin and juice nights on the front porch, and inspiration sandwiches with a side of starfish and fireflies.
When I miss Somerville now, it's different. It reminds me of Jonny Rodgers song when he sings, "when I miss you it's a good pain..." It feels now like I miss a story someone told me, like it's not quite real. But there's something about the music of my times there that reignites the feeling of being in Davis Square, or Harvard Square, or 894 Broadway. The other night, listening to Porterdavis, I could nearly feel the cold vinyl seats of my car and my black down jacket as Rizz and I laughed so hard about the enormous phallus of a chocolate stick Dunkin Donut -- across the street from the Toad where we'd just emerged from seeing Porterdavis play in the shining January night... we laughed until we were snorting powdered sugar, still high from Daniel's music, and the leftover Christmas lights, and my heart was warm with snow.
And the refrain kicks up, and I Adore You, and it's time to hit the road.
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