Monday, March 27, 2006

Blue Velvet America, Half Glimpsed In The Headlights Between The Trees

It's the 60's.
I'm standing on a beach on the West Coast of America looking out at the Pacific Ocean.

I play tambourine in Bob Dylan's band. He gave me a little white pill, which I don't think was asprin, but I took anyway. The beach is pebbled and, although I can't feel it, I know it's raining because the pebbles are shiny and uniformly dark grey. I take off my shoes and walk into the sea.

The sky is purple, there's a wind whipping the pines on the shoreline, and the sea is swelling dangerously, but I wade out further - until I realise that I will get swept off my feet or, worse, lose my shoes.

When I'm back, only ankle deep in the foam, with my skirt, cold and soaked, wrapping itself around me, one of the backing singers approaches, kisses me, and tells me the afternoon show is cancelled because of the storm.

We leave the beach through the revolving door that spills us out onto Main Street.

I wake up feeling cheated. I don't even like Bob Dylan.

Cindy Of 1000 Lives - Billy Bragg


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