So I'm going out of my mind today, a little bit.
I blame hormones, which would also explain why my lower abdomen and back have gotten inexplicably sorer five days post-surgery and even the titles of books at the bookstore piss me off for no discernible reason (after Dave quite reasonably suggested that I get out for a bit - reasonable because I've been cooped up for quite a while now as well as for the fact that no one, including Dave, wants to be in the proximity of a crazed post-surgical woman in the throes of PMS when she finally does lose it.)
Anyway, I was debating various books at the bookstore.
Buy them all, said my evil twin,
buy them all; you know you want to; and it doesn't matter, nothing matters. I guess it's a positive thing that my idea of huge overindulgence is getting
two books instead of one, as well as a CD. And paying retail for them all instead of going with the used bookstore option.
But the CD I wouldn't have known about if they hadn't been playing it. I was shopping, and there was suddenly this woman's voice entering my consciousness. Her voice was smooth, but
full, both in terms of being resonant and in terms of having strength. This is the voice of a woman who has savored life on her own terms, and she's had some pain - okay, a lot of pain - but goddamn, she keeps singing. And there's a bit of gravel, a harshness. More blues than jazz, but more independence than heartbreak. (My inner
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shaterri is insisting I throw the word
mellifluous in here someplace. So, okay: mellifluous too.)
The artist's name is Lizz Wright and the album is
The Orchard. In one picture, she is standing in some sort of orchard. Yet further inside the liner, she's standing in front of a bunch of cypress tress, just like the ones I remember from Winter Haven (and the aforementioned Cypress Gardens) of my youth. That doesn't mean anything; it just looks familiar.
http://www.lizzwright.net , anyway, if any of you are curious.
The other thing is that once I mentioned a Philip Larkin poem in this journal (I'm too lazy to search for the reference at the moment). I (mis)quoted a line from it that had stuck with me from high school and lamented the fact that I hadn't been able to find the poem since. Well, today I did, and so of course I bought the book, a sort of Larkin's greatest hits. (And of course I'll post the poem later.)
Anyway, I love Philip Larkin as a poet*. He's so understated, so British. Even his first name only has one
l. Reading him is like feeling a cold wind blowing at the back of my neck, but in a good way, a
true way. Larkin doesn't shy away from things; he's sentimental at times, but not overly, and so very deadpan. He's laughing at life, and his laughter is a little like
chipotle's: it doesn't flinch from the difficult parts, it's bemused in almost a terrible way, but it's also filled with kindness, a
knowing that refuses to succumb to bitterness.
So here are the two people I'm embracing: a gorgeous dark woman with a voice that reaches into my soul and pulls out everything, singing lullabies - not that everything will be all right, but that I'll manage in the way
we do; her voice pulls me into a web with her and a cadre of strong women I could only hope to meet (or be) one day. And next to her, his hands firm on my back...is this pale balding man who looks like he could be Mr. Green in a remake of
Clue, with grim lines etched into his face and his brow furrowed, but his hands soft and clean where they rest against each other. One of my saviors is wearing some sort of flowy white dress with her face tilted proud to the sky; the other one is wearing a buttoned-up white shirt, with a tightly-knotted tie, v-neck sweater, dark pants and laced up oxford shoes.
But for all that, they each have such beautiful voices...
***
* Not as a person, or certainly not the racism and right-wing politics that were attributed to him based upon personal letters read posthumously**for the terminally curious, the other purchase was Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird; I lost my only copy and I've been meaning to replace it. And it's eluded me at used bookstores for too long now![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}