Scaring the Sh*t Out of Myself. - Lately I've become something of a fetishistic consumer of true crime. Yeah, I used that phrase. It started with Serial, Season One. It continued with the...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
St. James Infirmary
I didn't know, then, that I was standing in a Louis Armstrong song, a life expiring on a slab. I didn't know where the boomerang of the circular drive would land the body, the procession to the next life.
I did know atonement. Or knew that it was coming.
And then rebirth.
At the same time, a calm. A change. A shudder to slough off the ashes. To make something of my fuck up, if that's what it was.
Standing inside the St. James Infirmary, looking toward the steps I wouldn't walk up again, the blues song had already been written and well trod.
But blue wasn't the mind's mood. I wasn't looking back at the miles on my running shoes. Or the Old Testament. I wasn't thinking about the rock in the woods where I sat reading Beowulf. I wasn't worried about conjugating verbs or dress code or hair length.
I wasn't looking back at the life ending..."Let her go! Let her go! God Bless her...where ever she may be..."
I was looking forward. Consoled now by Satchmo.