The Song, Like Making Love ...

Mood: Dizzy, waiting for a tiringly-long meeting, just from the first coffee.
[Toot!] Index: 0.1
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

From the sudden beginning, filled with drums, building up, there is a song that pushes a listener into a trance. A worshipful mode that one only ever reaches under the influence of a herb or two.
Zion Train. That's the song. The most-powerful call for repatriation by any ex-slave in human history. At least on LP. And in MP3.

Around the middle of the ecstatic One Drop pumping, Bob Marley calls us over `to the bridge', and then a swinging climb, like lovers rocking, then the lengthened refrain ... the excitement, the build-up, then ... One Drop. The drums descend on my ears, thudding with life. The drums. The drums. The drums.

They reach a point and you know they have to come down, now. This is the peak. Can't climb any higher. But they keep climbing. Then the beat breaks open, and, in a spasmic, orgasmic convulsion, the fade starts to win the battle.

And my ears are left buzzing with the memory. Like a spent lover panting. The echoes of the call - `Oh, People! Get on board!' - bounces around in my head, looking for a nice warm corner to perch and from there affect what I blog about for the rest of my life. It finds the back of the head, where some Michael Jackson music sat when I was 10, and the corner hasn't been swept in a decade. It sits there, and infects the rest of my brain with '70s Trenchtown, slowly, like a fungus. A fungus I love.

But that was later. In the future. I'm writing in retro. And as of now, I am seated on my bed^*, my ear buds behind my neck, the cords still reaching around my neck, like a lover slumbering off against my chest. I look down at the iPod. The green diode like a distant smile on her content face. I wonder what she's dreaming. Silent. No player, no ears, under the sun, could stand two such songs back-to-back.
I click it off.

Damn. My crib is quiet. I love solitude, but not loneliness. Can't get me a puppy, because the slums will teach it how to keep flees. Can't have a chic, because ... because I don't have one. I don't want one. She doesn't want me, either, so it's all good. I don't care. Really, I don't. It's okay. She doesn't want me. I mean, it's her choice, in the end, right? I only wish to God above that I knew how to forget the hurt of ... Enough crap, soldier! The Revolution won't stand sissies in its ranks! [The echo laughs in my shack: sissies in its ranks ... in its ranks ... its ranks ... s ranks ... ranks ... ks ... s]
Need a kitten. Yes. A kitten. [Glancing scaredly over my shoulder, at the Mao Zedong poster that just rebuked me.] Cats, I have heard, can locate a good leaf if you take them along on the hunt. And a nice place to hide explosives when they do toilet.
Ah. Mao is beaming at me. The Chairman is Watching. Red, Bright and Shining.

* My bed is actually just one big bag of air. I pump it back up when it runs low on pressure. Electronic. And no beddings. Just a sleeping bag. :oD
They say you never really leave the revolution behind.