When I woke this morning, I was not hungover, but, a little parched from the many bountiful glasses of wine imbibed last night, and this was playing in my head . . . “Come Saturday morning, I’m going away with my friend …”
Now, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve no plans to see any friends. But, this is the sort of thing that happens to me all day, every day. My eager to depart this plane consciousness and failing brain are akin to some sort of cosmic I-Pod Shuffle. I am tortured, haunted, hunted, assaulted by this reverie of the past, echoes wakening memories, resulting in musings and meditations on was and wasn’t and might have and should have and did and didn’t and and and and … suddenly a day has flown in which I’ve done little but wonder how it is I got there, to that day, which has ended with me doing nothing worth remembering except remembering bits and pieces of the days and weeks and months and years and decades before and thus I have added another in the too-long line of days absent of anything but melancholy reflection . . . all the and and and and and . . .
And Come Saturday Morning was the only song I ever learned to play on the little electric organ my aunt bought me. It had been delivered to the front porch of our home out in the middle of nowhere, long ago, long before those days of daily boxes from Amazon, long before I knew what UPS was (was there a UPS then? What? Wikipedia says it was founded in 1907. Okay, then – you see where this pondering leads?) and so a box with my name on it, on the front porch, a HUGE deal.
And that’s the first thing of which the song reminded me. My excitement about the box. Which made me sad. Because I don’t get excited much anymore. And too, honestly, because I never get a surprise box. And my aunt is gone. And I still miss her.
And the organ was a little plastic-y thing. Brown. No stand. I don’t know how many keys it had but there were numbers over them which corresponded to the notes in the little music book with which it came. It was all a one finger thing. Even then, young as I was, I used songs like magic spells to connect me to the places and energies from which they came, and though I was not taken to see The Sterile Cuckoo, I knew, somehow, I was part of its world. I belonged there, with Liza Minnelli.
And I would play the song and sing along and cry about my broken heart. Honestly, I had NO idea of the plot of The Sterile Cuckoo. I was simply genetically predisposed to assume that every story worth being in ended with a broken heart and tragic-ish ballad.
And why didn’t someone stop me?
And then I remember that my Mother tried. “Learn another song. One that doesn’t make you cry.”
And then I wonder, “Did that really happen?” Not the crying. I know that happened. Did she tell me to learn another song? I don’t know the sequence but in the same room where I played on endless repeat Come Saturday Morning, I played over and over again Liza Minnelli’s The Singer. I sang along.
And then, disco happened and my ambition was to get to Manhattan and be a regular at Studio 54 with Liza and Mischa and . . . the closest I got was listening to Liza’s Tropical Nights in lesser discos with lesser celebrities and . . .
I need to take a break for a few days . . . good-bye until . . . . and and and and and and . . . .