Where it’s quiet
Through the unbelieving green woods, I lashed the flies on my back and arms with branches as if orchestrating music, or swinging a machete. I emerged from an opening into gray mud and a rock pile with flowers and trash and cat tails growing from it: Old Town Recycling Center. labeled piles. lumber pallets. miscellaneous woods: brooms, chairs, bed frames, benches, tv boxes. plastics. refrigerators.
Walking out into the municipal airport brought a tune to my head. A Bob Dylan song, sang by Joan Baez, “Call me any name you like I will never deny it…the sky is erupting, I must go where it’s quiet.” Back at my apartment I remembered where the song comes from: Farewell Angelina. I put the record on and laid on the floor, listening to the most beautiful woman vocalist sing over the tightest guitar picking. Maine traffic outside—staring at winking trees and marks on the ceiling and the bareness of my new life, I marveled at how music is a part of my soul, unable to lose its way, showing up inside me anywhere, coming out to protect me.