Brilliant autumn sunlight this afternoon, last chance I'll have to see my gallery show on a weekend, maybe I'll go see Nicholas Ray's In a Lonely Place at the Siskel instead? I'd rather be writing. I go downstairs to the cafe to find necessary distraction. There's a line, a bustle, a wait, I exchange smiles or smirks with a couple people I know. While I wait, there's music playing, but I can't hear what it is.
My friend Josh played some songs at a small show, a benefit, in the summer, and he and the other performer on the bill were trying new solo material no one had heard yet. There's one song he played, wholly unlike anything I expected, probably the most beautiful song I'd heard all year, the strain in his voice for a certain note filled with ache. I told him so, and said I wanted to make something using it as the soundtrack. "Cool," he said. A couple weeks later, he gave me a demo, said he'd be tinkering with it some more, it won't be released for a while. I listened. I listened again. I love it. I collected the images I wanted to use, a performer I want to be in the short also said yes. I haven't thought about the project for a week.
Right after I order the caffeine, another song starts, and I recognize it emotionally before I recognize it consciously. All I can think is: I'm hallucinating, I've heard this song 40 times, but this can't... Oh yeah, I remember, Josh has been passing copies of the demo around.
In a fresh context, the song is lovelier still. "I cannot stand the myth of this," Josh repeats, and I realize, no, that's not what he's been singing at all. "Oh, I. I can't stand a minute of this." Someone in a nearby booth catches my emotional and distracted expression. I look toward her, I've never seen her with her hair down.