I went to a funeral last week. As everyone filed out, they played a song I’d never heard called “On Eagle’s Wings.” An older couple behind me sang along, their voices low and close in my ear: “He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn.” The next day I got a voicemail from my mother. She sometimes calls and asks me to look up something on the internet.
Ah the joys and perils of combining solitary evenings, a dumb sense of humor, and working in sound-proof rooms.
“The rain carried on falling, keeping customers away. The rain fell softly, then heavily, then softly. Static hisses on telephone lines. Jimmy Cobb’s percussion on ‘Blue in Green.’” The record shop clerk in David Mitchell’s “Ghostwritten” thinks a lot about music. It makes a place in his head, refuge from a bustling Tokyo.
Johnny Mathis meets Frank Zappa. Hilarity ensues.