Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Maybe you're gonna be the one who saves me.


It’s out of place for the heart to yearn a little in the middle of this work week disguised as vacation (or is it the other way around?), but if I didn’t allow myself that on occasion, I’d be something other than human. It was a ridiculously grand day, too, one largely spent on the beach, skipping across ocean waves on a wave runner, feeding some pretty hungry fish on the bottom of the ocean and feasting on King Prawns and crab legs served up on banana leaves for lunch. Yes, this is the company I happen work for. They’re all kinds of good to me.

And yet. It’s coming up on midnight and I am choosing to finish up my work assignments under a barrage of ceiling fans in the hotel lobby, where a Norah Jones sound-a-like is singing a neverending string of Cat Stevens and other covers (presently, she’s doing one of the best takes on “You’ve Got A Friend” I’ve ever had the privilege of taking in). Her voice is rich and warm and enough to melt the strong-willed and absolutely destroy the weak (and I’d like to think I reside in the middle somewhere). When she chooses to speak a little, you learn that she’s English. Did you know that it’s been scientifically proven that accents can and often do turn grown men into puddles? It’s an ongoing problem.

I empathize with Walter Mitty. Remember him? The very same character who would see himself in any number of impossible scenarios, living out a long string of fantasy lives, though he lived a fairly humdrum, ho-hum existence? He resides in me a little, too. See, I can quite easily envision a version of myself striding past the German ponytailed Val Kilmer look-a-like sitting just a few feet away from her, right before I thank her for making my night go better than it was before. He says thank you with a hug even. That same version acknowledges that, yes, she just sang for four hours straight, but wouldn’t she mind singing some more over yonder on the beach with a scruffy Yankee sort like me? She’d readily accept, Val would dejectedly head back to his room and the two of us would piece together sing-a-longs until the sun rose on the crests of the sea in the morn. We’d beat the birds to their songs, even. I can see all of that. In a dazzling array of Technicolor, even. It’s so easy and beautiful and right. It all sounds about as nice as the music I’ve heard, too.

And yet. Sigh. And yet.

for more on Susy Thomas (aka the singer I heard), run over HERE for a spell


1 comment:

thefish said...

I can guarantee that an accent, and particularly for me an English accent, can turn me into a puddle as well (of course in a non-same-sex kinda way). I also like those cheeky Britts for their sense of humor and very precise verbage, which usually just adds to the hilarity! Men aren;t the only ones to have a liking to accents. That explains my summer in Rossendale Valley, England...and almost 5 yrs...I echo your "And yet. Sigh. Snd Yet" sentiment all too well.