Today I thought about writing a few lines about Love

jazz bar painting

Why? Simple. I believed there was something inside me that wanted to be set free. So I sat down, grabbed my trusty laptop and wrote one, rather confused line. Mambo was mambo jambo.
Ten minutes later, the words on the page were still feeling very much alone. So I grabbed my headphones, cranked up the base and let the rhythms flow. I always write best with music, bopping side to side as words are matched to feelings. Not today. Nada. Zilch.
It’s the music, I thought. Not the right beat…too much pop, not enough spunk. I had to change it. So I turned to Karuan, my newest find. He lives in Vienna. Kurdish parents. Likes folk and as his profile said, black music. Whatever that means. But who cares. Today, his music would be my muse. I listened and I bopped and waited for the thoughts to arrive.

All I could think of was my drum, so suggestively standing beside my chair. That’s what I would do. A five minute drumming interjection. Oh yes!

Ten minutes later, a knock on my door. Stop the drumming! At this ungodly hour. And I did. But, rhythm had me. The two of us were not done…yet.

It had been a long time since I had last danced in my room…too long. Eyes closed, I allowed in what wanted in..and out poured, I must admit, some funky dance moves. The longer I moved to the music, the more limber I became. Soon it was all too easy and the song was on repeat and one hour later, I had just downloaded the album and was breathless.

It came to me that the last time I had connected to music so intensely, I had been 18 years old. I was living in a motel, in a lonely northern Albertan oil town and had spent days on end working on an oil rig. It was the middle of winter. Suffice it to say, I was depressed, the movie selection was anything but spectacular, and my books were all read out.

It was Billy Joel and I that night.

The good thing about working for an oil company is that they put you up in a big ass hotel room. Two king-sized beds. Lots of room for going crazy to the sounds of River of Dreams.
Those nights, dancing alone in my room to, some might say, very peculiar music, kept me going. I always fell asleep with a smile and the next day was just another day before another night of sweet rhythms.
There is something about music…about moving to it…it’s hard to explain…and I won’t try.
So, where does this leave me? Yes, I know. Lesson learned! Start writing about love and you might find yourself dancing carefree in your room in the middle of the night.
I can’t wait to write the next line.


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