That One Song

Music of the erotic as power.

How are you? How’s your summer going? Is your AC working? How’s your elderly dad? Did you get those test results back? Did you return that dress yet? How’s your voting, calling and marching going? Did your Senator get it right or wrong this time? Do you still like it here? Do you have a Plan B?

How was your Fourth? I fucking hate fireworks and I always have. Bombs, blood, tumult and death. War as patriotism. Killing in the name. Freedom from tyranny, yet here we are again, riding history’s ghost train. Hauntings everywhere, former brutalities reforming in front of our eyes. Are your neighbors safe on the streets?

How are you managing your anxiety? Lately, after dinner is done and the kitchen cleaned, I go for short walks around my neighborhood, leaving my phone behind. This is the Magic Hour, that time just before sunset when the light is perfect, downy-soft yet somehow hyper-clear. Heaven coming down. I stroll slowly. I don’t want to rush this.

Because without the distraction of my phone my mind performs a glorious trick. It reverts, automatically, to what it used to do when I was a teenager. Back then I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. I walked everywhere, and I was alone a lot. I was a quiet, painfully shy and anxious person, yet my mind was always active, and what it loved to work with was songs.

Inside my ears I would summon my favorite radio song and move it all through my body, roaming through the vivid world it contained. I would stretch it out, bit by bit, making it bigger and stronger. Then I would start building on top of it, envisioning my own safe and joyful place to thrive. I’d sing softly as I walked and feel the lyrics and melody streaming out of my mouth into the open air, unlocking doors to a future that was so close. I would move through this process and emerge excited, uplifted and grateful. It worked every time!

I believed in the power of those songs completely, and that time with them was a deep spiritual devotion. Now that I’m walking alone without a phone every evening, it’s all coming back. I hope you have a way to find your young, fresh, innocent self again, and to remember what that feels like. This feeling is not blindness, but purity, the kind that heals. Wounded healers are the only ones I respect. How are your wounds doing?

Pick a song from your younger years and get to work. Or borrow the song that found me on my walk last night, one that can blast any darkness with megawatt lights. It’s all there, everything you need: the singer’s raw swagger, he knows he’s written a survival anthem. The gospel vocalists in the background, heaven coming down. Maybe we’re not in the darkness of death, but of the space just before rebirth. The song’s chorus is prescriptive, a reminder of what it takes to keep being human. As the song moves forward, the keyboard triplets in the bridge rise up and up, taking you to the highest point of yourself. We’re all doing what we can, but can we do even more? If we have to fight, let it be a war on cynicism. We need what works, music of the erotic as power. I got up straight after sex to write this piece. You turn me on.