I have a thing for cotton sheets. Even in the summertime when it’s too hot to have anything touching skin, I love at least one calf wrapped up in a clean cotton sheet.
Apart from that and a few other scrappy facts, this life is mostly a mystery to me.
I’ve tried to identify the world with crisp scientific bulletins. Which are at best, fumbling, nearsighted misconceptions:
“Who’s that lady?” (a dread-locked, hippie male)
“There, a black cat!” (a mottled crane)
“Look, an oak tree!” (a streetlamp)
There are personal truths which maintain enough of an orbit for me to reasonably revere. They work well in songs but make for lousy conversation.
For example, the best flashback is the simplest. Upstate New York, five Augusts ago, sprawling in bed on a Saturday afternoon, two degrees from being a full-on derelict as an unexpected guest of my house-sitting friend, D.
Chlorine mane and a forsaken mind, there was some kind of spectral, humid force conducting the curtains, the katydids and the grasses out past the barn.
That right there is where half of my brain eternally stays. I guess if you lend me some swim trunks and slightly suggestive choreography, I’m good to go.
I love cotton sheets, I write songs to be heard, I write words to be connected and underneath all of this, I’ve tried to keep my ego in the well of low expectations.
Because everyone knows, a drowned ego can make an amazing pool float.