I had to stop on my drive home yesterday, right in the middle of the road, and wait as twenty Canada geese meandered their way across the road. I counted. But the road is quiet, and winds nicely through trees and hills, and I can almost forget that I'm driving to and from work. I'm just driving, and singing, and everything's okay.
This morning one radio station put on Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al", much to my early-morning delight. They should just play all of Graceland
for me every morning. Or maybe I should just install my CD player, already.
I've also been enjoying listening to Sam Roberts' "Where Have All the Good People Gone?" whenever that comes on. I like Sam Roberts; I like his singing, and I like his lovely flavour of Canadian-ness. You can hear it in the way he says "Montreal". You can always spot an American by the way that they (mis)pronounce Montreal. (And no, I'm not talking about the French way, either, though that's fun too.)
It's a funny thing, though, singing in the car. I can gauge my mood by car-singing better than anything else. This afternoon I was slightly sad underneath, slightly slower, though I didn't consciously realize it; but the music seemed less, somehow, and I could drive with lips firmly pressed together. Window open, feeling the pull of the turns.
If this was on paper, it would be edged into margins. If this was in pencil, I'd be reaching for the eraser. As it is, my curtains are closed and the lights are off; my alarm clock waits by the bedside, counting down the minutes before it can sing me awake again. The hum of the laptop's fan is easing me to sleep.