6 April 2007. Gray again, morning. A very dark-complexioned man in white cut-offs, white top, climbing into white Chevy van--windowless, small illegible sign on end of side--another man, also in white, hops in the facing door. White backing lights blink on, then two red gashes just below, pulling out slowly...
Image of electric guitar against white ground. "I've been listening to Lonnie Johnson all week..."
My baby's so evil she can't keep straight in the bed
She gets full of wine at night, wish everybody was dead
Birta from Rejkevik--in amazement--no, that's not quite the right word. Recognition, maybe--that these` feelings can be shared, even when they seem to be so far from her own. "She can't sleep straight in the bed." Lyrical, incantatory, that polished single-string guitar line--like some kind of cosmic ice skater--true blade path through the Milky Way. Madelyn, too...the reality of who we are--starting with herself. "Now my apron strings won't pin..." And Cindy, mysterious half-veiled presence, set in old wood... Elizabeth Cotten--implacable face, not looking away--if Mount Rushmore were true, this too... Small electric locomotive model, rolling along at some miniature scale, someone's patio--the plants, the fence, the flash of turquoise pool. A sound track--also lilting--harmless jazz, the open road...
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