184/365 Big Black Bird

Can you see that big black bird
Sitting in yonder tree?
I wonder what that big black bird
Is thinking as he’s looking at me
I wish I were that big black bird
Sitting in yonder tree
Then I think, I think I’d know
What if felt like to be free

On April 24, Maureen signed off with the peepers.

She was only in this project for 100 songs. And she quit at 87.

Just 13 to go. I couldn’t believe it. But I have a feeling that part of Maureen’s MO is to leave her audience wanting more.

I do. I wish she’d start blogging again. I hear she’s quit doin’ that though. I envision her off dancing in Cape Breton somewhere.

But instead of posting a Cape Breton fiddle tune, I’m going with Rani Arbo and Daisy Mayhem, as there are finally a few clips on Youtube. Maureen kept blogging songs that Rani Arbo’s group had covered, either back in the Salamander Crossing days or in the current Daisy Mayhem incarnation.

Daisy Mayhem includes two Salamander Crossing folk: Rani Arbo and Andrew Kinsey. This is one of Kinsey’s songs.

Can you see that river roll
Rolling on down to the sea?
I wonder if that river knows
Just what’s become of [Maureen]

183/365 Let’s Misbehave

They say that spring means just one thing
To little lovebirds
We’re not above birds—Let’s misbehave!
It’s getting late and while I wait
My poor heart aches on
Why keep the brakes on? Let’s misbehave!

I miss Helen. Not in the “Hey, Helen, let’s you and I misbehave” sort of way, but I always felt I had a like-minded, utterly base buddy out there whose mind would find double entendre anywhere the slightest whiff of it lurked and for whom single entendre could inspire the running of a celebratory mile.

Of course, she’s out there reading and commenting, thank god, and she’s utterly honest about her need to take a break and announces it. I appreciate that. So I still get to be around her wit a bit. But when you’re writing as well as she is in public, I say, hey, get a blog.

Here’s Cole Porter for Helen (and just the slightest bit for Sewa Yoleme, because he loves it so).

If you want a future, darling,
Why don’t you get a past?

182/365 Crescent Noon

Green September
Burned to October brown
Bare November
Led to December’s frozen ground
The seasons stumbled round
Our drifting lives are bound
To a falling crescent noon

Dona, of Jeux Sans Frontiers: Another mother, disappeared for the summer, gone since June 15. I have a special place in my heart for Dona. First, we’ve lived in two of the same towns (Elgin and DC). Second, she’s the type of person who goes out of her way for others. For me, when she was visiting Elgin, she took photos of the house I lived in 20+ years ago. Then, after a Carpenters post, she sent me some bootleg. Whatta gal.

Frankly, I’ve been so overworked lately I haven’t had time to check to see if she’s blogging on her other sites.

But for her, a Carpenters song, one that only people who had their albums would know, a very not-pop number called “Crescent Noon.” One of the slowest and melancholy tunes I listened to as a kid, in all likelihood. One that I actually liked.

The good news is, Dona’s a blogger. If she’s disappeared here, I’ll very likely be able to catch her somewhere else. Eventually.

181/365 Lovely Rita

Lovely Rita meter maid
Nothing can come between us
When it gets dark I tow your heart away
Standing by a parking meter
When I caught a glimpse of Rita
Filling in a ticket in her little white book

Writing really seems to be performance art for Deloney. Not only will he abruptly stop a project, but he pulls it out from under you—no more access. So when he was done with his music project, Grace Notes (excellent title), it just disappeared from cyberspace, never to be seen again.

And now I find that The Danforth, née Fanny, is gone.

Where is he? He writes bits that make me drool.

His blogs are like time ticking away on a meter.

180/365 Sad Lisa

Open your door, don’t hide in the dark.
You’re lost in the dark, you can trust me.
’Cause you know that’s how it must be.

Lisa. The woman who started it all. Dancing About Architecture herself. She hasn’t posted since June 23! Lisa, Lisa, where are you?

Of course, I know the answer to this. It’s summer, and she’s off being a good mom, spending time with her kids. The child in me wants to remind her that she’s mother of this very blog group, and although we all need to eventually grow up and live our own lives (and obviously, some are already doing that), she still has an obligation to be here for us—not let us flail about like so many bad dancers. Ah, sad Indigo.

For Lisa, whom I miss, Cat Stevens.

179/365 The Needle and the Damage Done

I caught you knockin’
at my cellar door
I love you, baby,
can I have some more?

I can stop anytime I want.

Blogging, that is. I figure it’s an obsession, not an addiction.

My problem is—well, one of my problems—this obsessiveness I have about needing to finish what I start. So apparently, if I make a slash mark and follow it by 365, I expect myself to fill up the numbers on the front end.

But I could quit. Couldn’t I?

I mean look at what’s happened. All these 365ers come over to this project, and some have completely disappeared, and some may have.

I don’t intend to quit blogging. It’s just that this particular daily aspect of it is wearing me down, and others have disappeared, which is very not motivating. I would go back to Alphabird, the blog I miss. She’d forgive me this other obsession. Wouldn’t she?

Now I find a new blog link on this project by a blogger whose 365 work I’ve been totally enjoying. Just when I was going to quit . . a hesitation.

I think in preparation for possibly quitting, I will honor the Fallen and Possibly Fallen with songs dedicated to them. (Stay tuned.)

And then we’ll see.

I’d say 200 posts is a worthy goal, but again, the very number is a rather arbitrary obsessiveness that comes from living in a decimal society.

Here’s Neil Young.

178/365 It Ain’t Me, Babe

Go ’way from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed

I just had breakfast downstairs in this hotel. Didn’t have time to go out. Too much work to do.

The syrup flowed as Muzak brought me this Dylan classic via a full-fledged orchestra.

How often do you think Bob’s subjected to these interpretations?

It ain't me babe. I swear it.