I have a song to write about. It was a song that came on the radio. My sister was driving the car. The song sounded like it needed listening to a little closer. In the car I didn’t listen closely but I listened close enough to lodge a thought in my mind about looking up the song later on my laptop. That thought is now playing on my laptop. In my sister’s new home. That thought is now feeling into it all, and I’m feeling it journey along my mind, down my back, and up again, readying me for bed, around about, now sleeping on the upside down triangle of my quietly heaving lungs. Kinda, almost, I know it’s good.
It’s Max Jury, the radio waves, Dermot O Leary, BBC Radio 2, saturday best, announcements from a motorway motivation, the amplitudes of a moving-home-memory, crunching through the soft glassiness of a motorcar
Yeah, it’s a guy.
I was surprised because this voice didn’t necessarily sound masculine that much.
But soothing, makes sense I guess, reassures the thought re-lodged on some lungs now slowing, touching. Feeling together, feeling longing good, 3 minutes more and on repeat, readying me for bed.
Trans-sounds, transiting on a bed. Made itself the morning, made itself at home. All is well.
The thought now its own little lodging, somewhere to be returned to for what feels like forever, that’s how this Max sounds. A song about home that could make a little sense for every moment of a mindset, for all along longing way back “growing old” “i’m a long way from home” “i’ll be back someday”. The song, the singer makes the banality that often befits an often-heard refrain fade away – replaces it with the that thing that often goes amiss, the living breathing sleeping home thinking thing with neat fingers and untired chords of a voice reassuring like a proper ‘grand’ piano, not just namesakes a background narration, the motorcar motivator, well to be traveling tomorrow, but rest assured that time I’ll be listening so closely and singing hardly from the furthest point pinnable in a thought, “the thought” no less, a phrase, a song, a moving-homing-memory, the sunroof open. It’s all good.