Sparks Fly Upward

I’ve recently taken to listening to internet radio in my kitchen, often late at night with a glass of wine and I am freshly astonished how music that I have literally not heard for years can immediately evoke a feeling I have left alone (or in some cases been strenuously avoiding) almost at once. Yes I know this is not profound but it’s still rattling to be transported to that exact place in time when I first experienced the hornet’s sting of unrequited love, abject, soul twisting misery and of course a ‘70s haircut. (Those last two may have been connected come to think of it …)
Like Scrooge hurtling towards the swirling vortex of the past with his spirit chums, I see my younger self weeping in the corner of the gym, navy mascara streaking my cheeks, long legs ending in shiny black stilettos as I dramatically, shakily, accept a menthol cigarette from a concerned friend. Although I can scoff now, having since experienced a much more advanced and varied strata of despair, I still recall later that night likening the painful feeling in my heart to a scraped out grapefruit which had been topped up with acid; again, you-ain’t-seen-nothin’-yet in retrospect, but I still like the girl I was then, totally immersed in the metaphysical poets and  School-Girl Giddy with the realization that John Donne had actually intended a double entendre with “sucked on country pleasures childishly.” And Robert Plant when he shouted Mama let me pump your gas? Yes! He too meant just what I was thinking!

Whoa.

But back to the gym! Why was I crying? Well most certainly because the boy I fancied was dancing with someone else or did not appear to know that I existed despite rabid assurances from (always hooked up and attractive) friends who whispered they had seen him “watching me” all night etc.

Right.

Anyway, here’s the (especially dreadful yet somehow still a guilty pleasure) song that brought it all back.

(And seriously, WHAT’S with that keyboard player …)

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