A few weeks ago our friend Rachel came to dinner and gave us a CD from one of her favorite new artists: Bon Iver. Love it. Last week’s New Yorker contained a glowing review of that very disk that agreed perfectly with, and built upon, our own impressions. Seems like Rachel plugged us into something good.
That made us think of our visit to New Orleans a few years back (before the flood). On our last night we sort of fell into a very unassuming bar where the music was simply jamming. Guys were coming in off the streets, sitting in for a few numbers then yielding their chairs to someone else. The groove was more infectous than anything I’ve experienced since. The next day on the plane ride home, we opened the Crescent City’s version of the Village Voice, hot off the press. In his weekly column, Andrei Codrescu wrote how he had found the beating New Orleans’ beating heart at the very same gig. Everyone in the room could feel it.
Last night I dreamt that Sebastian had overfilled the bathtub and I awoke to find the pie plate I had left under the radiator had failed miserably in catching the surplus outflow. The result was a pool of water on the living room floor. I suppose the dream was a warning from my subconscious mind that a small domestic catastrophe was on its way, just as the meteorologists had foreseen Katrina.
I celebrate the many connections that tie us to one another and connect each of us to the universe around and within us. It would be nice however, to be able to read those invisible linkages before I have to get out the mop. I suppose that’s where intuition and wisdom meet.
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