Spring Elicits Epiphany, Moments Of Musical Genius

It was snowing when I left. The snow was dismally grey; though the sun was shining, it left an imprint of snow boots, UGG style, and dog piss and empty gum wrappers. The sun was shining through, giving a brilliant sheen to the emptying townhouses and the glint of icicles on car bumpers.

There are palm trees in California in March. There are palm trees and fit bodies where there is snow and shit in Indiana. There are meth labs polluting the atmosphere and news stories played from NPR stations in the snow-covered sheen of the Midwest.

But in the west, there are convertibles, top down, cranking music that I’ve never heard before. This seemingly makes me a guru of all things nonsensical, perfectly sensible because abnormalities are perfect. California, land of anti-trends, wasteland of green economies, vegans, and vintage clothes. Play me some Leonard Cohen covers and I’ll be splendid, dammit. But the weather is warm; the top is still down and I can ignore the people for a little while.

The weather is warm and the Beach Boys are necessary. Pet Sounds is all allergies; Brian Wilson is crooning. I want him to love me. I want him to leave me. I want the sun to shine and the trees to cast shadows. If there is a God, I want him to reveal himself among the buds of new leaves.

Broken Social Scene sings an “Anthem To A Seventeen Year Old Girl.” I remember drinking merlot on a houseboat in the San Diego harbor, unafraid. The seagulls’ wings glint, salty air weighing their feathers down. The ocean is so close, lively, pulsing with unrepentant energy. Seashells are breaking on the shore. Seventeen brings memories of string bikinis in bright colors, odes to sunlight and whimsical behavior.

I’m giving away my bright colors. The sunshine brings oddball thoughts of glory. Van Morrison is singing of autumn and marvelous dances under the fiendish-wolf light of the moon. Autumn is death; the yellow leaves juxtapose their green counterparts. Spring is cocky, prepared for more rain that autumn could ever rely upon. Fall leaves seem to be sorrowful; spring leaves are ready to jut forth and tap dance, show off and smile—to be born again. Trees in spring are not gnarled or thinly veiled disguises of a youthful moment. Spring in California means walks through parks, on sidewalks, down themed streets- through any weather, regardless of weather, expecting all weather, safe.

I’m in the car. The top is down. The Talking Heads are pervading each ear. Brian Eno is a genius, once in a lifetime. The waves are going by; the water holds me down. The peaceful sun brings both apathy and happiness. The California sun will fade in three days. It won’t be autumn, but it will be a three-hour difference. Slightly innocuous, but a hopeful reality for too many. I will be allowed to hear the lead singer of Semisonic speak in a few days.

Indiana is depressing.



RELATED: broken social scene, brian wilson, the beach boys, talking heads, brian eno, van morrison

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