Let’s take a little trip back . . .
Appropriately, it’s evening-time, but I can’t see the sun sinking.
I’ve been in the room for hours, and delirium has taken me in its needle-toothed mouth. Every now and again it shakes me like an overzealous pup with a rope toy.
Amid shrill screams and attendants entering and leaving, I warble. And recite chapters in the book on medical coding that I’m currently editing.
“Winston Churchill,” I begin, off-tune. I’m certain the people in neighboring rooms are freaked by my shrieks and shocked by the absurd lyrics.
Genesis had yoked me—or should I say yolked me—to the birthing bed. Instead of real epidurals to soothe me, I chose music. Specifically progressive rock and roll music.
Such is the story of my life: at crucial points along the way, a song, album, musician, or band has entered stage left. And there in the limelight, I merged with the music, and it patched me up so I could pitch battle again.
Today, as the wife of a musician, I can’t avoid music. Not that I’d want to. It’s constantly in my ears and in my eyes and, as such, flares up persistently in my writing.
Naturally, a strong musical memory comes courtesy of my husband, who wrote a classical piece for me when we were courting, lo those many years ago. But I also owe a life-debt to musician and humanitarian Peter Gabriel. His popular ’80s tunes sledgehammered my sensibilities, shocked me with their grooves, and mercifully nestled in my neurons, big-time.
Then, as I made my way along and my existence complexified itself, I gravitated to the ground: to dig in the dirt, more specifically.
Finally, going zigzag through time, I arrive at what is, in my opinion, the zenith of prog-rock music. That golden period from approximately 1969 to 1981. And at the sweet chocolate-surprised center of that musical box lies one of my favorite bands: Genesis.
I’m not normally much interested in most celebrities, but I think it would be quite something to meet Mr. Gabriel. Other than in dreams, that is. (I once saved him from being trapped in a warehouse; I guess I was returning the favor.)
Now, fly away you sweet little thing, they are hard on your tail. Or hadn’t you heard?
This aforestory was written for the WordPress Daily Prompt. Please go there and follow the links to enjoy others’ musical reveries.