Thoughts while listening to “Pretty Mary K.” by Elliot Smith
The entrance crescendo of the twelve string guitars happened like a weather event. I almost forgot to tell you. I was trapped in the forest shed with the pretty one. I started to talk then it stitched up and I found the center drilled through an acorn of my heart. The rockets had already fired. Hail hit the tin roof like droplets of honey from a swarm of bees. The voice was the mist. The song continued. I was in there but I missed everyone. Suddenly I found faith in my wounds; they turned to silken body blows elevated by the salty waves of past love. My fate drew all the circles and dashes on the map towards home. This all goes out to the pretty one because almost like nothing I heard the symphonic notes at the top. I joined the thunder without any cymbals crashing. I felt that inner central nerve fire past twelve o’clock. The song became a soldier walking behind me. Bees flooded in and fleshed out acres of the past charging my inner escape. I was early in my dust-off phase. I heard all the harmonies knighted by the cloud’s closing words to the moon. My trap released the old bear and planted new seedlings. I heard all the harmonies. Voices from the infirmary congratulated the soldier by my ear. Never again would I listen to that old news. It all came to me like a new form of weather that had been hovering for years above me. The song hooked onto the registers of the new high wire. I mustered a glowing courage. I knew I was saved from furthering my despair in success. To top it off, the pretty one stayed inside me. And then I began to feel the melody corralling the guitars into syncopation like horses brushing their gallop across the hills.