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Category: Annie Lennox

September, 2015‏

 "A September Day" - George Henry

A September Day (1935)

George Henry

_______

September is a melancholy month, it
suggests fall in all of its connotations,
the array of burning colours lighting
up the leaves, purple, amber, magenta,
the steady decline into winter, of the
year and, by metaphorical extension,
of the years we have to come

it’s a month for philosophy, I think,
and introspection, therefore,
incidentally, I am

listen

Richard

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on watching broth boil‏

 "The Night of the Water Searcher" -  Stefan Caltia

The Night of the Water Searcher (2005)

Stefan Caltia

_______

though my friend whom I’d advised to
watch water boil probably didn’t heed
my suggestion, on the grounds that
she didn’t have the patience, much
as people who won’t do yoga do
despite the evident benefits, not
even myself for that matter, I’ve
continued to watch not only water
boil, identifying its myriad
permutations, but broth as well for
its incidence in homemade soup,
rice and, inadvertently lately, hot
toddies

before it erupts into a boil, a froth
will foam forming miniature bubbles
each the colour of rainbows until
they pop from the pressure that’s
built beneath them

Annie Lennox was on, I’d purchased
the video from iTunes of her latest
superb concert, to spend a quiet
evening while the chicken bones,
herbs and vegetables simmered

I haven’t yet even considered
watching anything simmer though,
certainly not yet broth

therefore Annie Lennox

her concert, “Nostalgia“, was a
recollection of blues greats that each
and every one of them had meaning,
roots in my, our, experience, songs
like Georgia“, “Summertime“, “It’s
Just the Nearness of You
“, “You
Belong to Me

I broke down at I Can Dream, Can’t I“,
needed lots of Kleenex

a song is a milestone, anchoring us to
our memories, to who we were then,
each time we hear it, over and over
again, like a chronological refrain,
informing us, each time, who we’ve
become, who we’ve been, if you don’t
remember the time or the place, each
fading in the distance, you remember
the feeling, how you incorporated the
meaning, made it fit you and your
particular ache, made you believe
this song must’ve been written for
you, however outlandish, however
improbable the idea, however
nevertheless real

Proust did the same with a crumpet,
a “madeleine”, dipped in tea, which
opened up for him remembrances
of afternoons at his grandmother’s
imprinted unconsciously on his
senses, and revived inadvertently
by a distant, but unexpectedly
related incident, a time warp

such is also the magic of music,
a means of keeping your soul
together

such is also art

Richard

psst: my eventual cheeseburger
soup, if you can believe it,
with ketchup, mustard, and
even dill pickles, turned out
to be delicious, a wonderful
accompaniment to an
evening of cozy, if
bittersweet, reminiscences