Don't Give It A Name

Something about the mix of the dulled sun falling through winter haze and Califone's Michigan Girls has me dreaming of thin and dusty two lane roads when I momentarily close my eyes.

You know when a combination of things just hits you with those soft and blossoming fists that hatch memories rife with feelings? I'm remembering visits to Dos Rios as if with hurried impressionistic brush strokes of sense memories; I can feel the calm I felt, almost smell that dry grass smell that makes me think of sage and cinnamon.

I think of the hot air that could be almost stifling if you weren't too busy enjoying the moments to pay attention. I think of that arid wind blowing smells of the world a city has neglected all through the car, swaying to the music that's moving me at that minute; sometimes with the laughter of two people, sometimes four.

I remember the crush of the uninhabited, the immediate feeling of being surrounded by nature and not buildings or other people, and knowing how that feeling could crush you in this odd claustrophobic sense if you wanted it to. But I remember smiling in knowing that grip was as if being swaddled in a blanket, feeling the welcome offered rushing to unknot muscles I didn't know needed it.

I can almost feel the frosty bite of the river that became the very definition of refreshing when the heat and sweat and dust had collected while you were busy talking in tongues. I can almost feel again the cold soul of that river washing through me, replenishing me.

I can feel the bittersweet heartbreak of looking down the barrel of that winding, two lane exit out of there; sad to be leaving, but more fulfilled than you ever had a right to feel.

Thank you Califone, that was unexpected and beautiful.


Confidential to you book jugglers: Screw your lime ruse, you'll get yours.