Welcome To My Bed

Today is.

Project launch.  More of those poems built on the back of a repeated song.  I woke up from a nightmare around five, consoled myself with a consistent loop of Emily Haines, then Son, Ambulance.  The verses that came were about apples and motel ghosts and God's absence and sand in the bed.  Orchids and television and falling out of trees.  Mining for new imagery in that reptile brain part of my head that sings along to everything without impulse control has been deeply fruitful.  I don't often sit down to quantify why it is I respond to one song on an album or mixtape over another--personal resonance is just as important as the musical arrangements or lyrical content.  There are certain songs I go back to over and over again when mailing CDs to faraway friends or making playlists for long drives.  Favorite seems too small a word for it.  There's something more underneath, something I'm trying to get at by writing these little story-poems.  I'm kicking around the idea that beyond the way a song fits into someone's personal narrative (when/where they first heard it, who introduced them to the artist/band, etc.), we create abstract narratives under songs that have little to do with what's actually there or not.  More to do with mood than what the song explicitly tells us about itself.  Lester Bangs wrote a story based on Rod Stewart's "Maggie May" that inspired the collection Lit Riffs.  Read it.  (It's way better than the song.)  The whole collection is pretty excellent.  I borrowed it from a friend years ago.  Maybe it's my jumping off point for my own stories-from-songs ekphrastic experiment.  I have a feeling some odd little chapbook will come from all this tuneful fumbling.