Rhythm and Blues

 "Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now, do you believe in rock 'n' roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
- American Pie, by Don McLean

An experimental stream of consciousness piece threaded together from a few fistfuls of events. 

Strawberries on my tongue, rough and sweet, ripe for a short window of time before rotting away. A bird splashes animatedly in a puddle made not from a rain storm but from a pipe leaking somewhere just under the ground. The big toe on my right foot begins to tingle after I run two miles so I try making myself consciously use my left leg as my dominant one. The same two songs have been playing in my head on repeat for several days; at moments I mind, but mostly I love it, awash in the sensation that someone wrote a song which can mean so much to so many people across the globe, across time, connecting me to the other people playing those same songs on repeat and humming or singing or belting along. During a virtual conference I saw an hour of, a celebrity anecdotally noted how people say they know or decide something in their heart when really it's the brain all along, and maybe I know this in my brain yet nonetheless my heart feels like the epicenter of every emotion and every decision made which defies all logic, so although it all may reside in the brain it's the thump of my heart in my chest, and the worry or peace it accompanies, which I've learned to trust more and more without regret. My bed is covered by a quilt made by my mother; if I recall correctly it's one she made when I was very little, one covered in tiny squares in a full array of patterns and colors which I could stare and stare at, finding my favorites, and when I run my fingers over it I almost want to cry. My sister took up running during the pandemic, something she never thought she would do, and holy hell I'm proud of her and love it when we set off at different times yet pass each other on the trail. The sound of my car engine revving as I decide to pass someone a bit aggressively rather than lag behind, handling the vehicle with confidence and being glad I love to drive. My boyfriend is so intelligent in many ways I am not, yet makes me feel like his equal counterpart in all our conversations. The elevator at work is empty; it's a surprise, nowadays, to share it with a masked stranger, when they used to be full. An embroidered pillow from another sister decorates my bed, the silk stitches and French knots carefully sewn to create a pattern of plants. A friend in Ecuador leaves me a video message and I leave her one in return, beacons back and forth across miles and miles.