1999 – A prolific time song wise. Why not? It was a helluva year! My backyard was the last clean diving spot on the south Florida coast. Revery made me dig out that year’s tunes. I pass them on to you pretty much as I recorded them. The mp3 of Soaring is here. Click on the title link. Listen here and/or download. Lyrics and more story below that.
Lyrics:
You looked at me, I looked at you
You looked away, By then I knew
Anyone looking would know it was true
I fell in love with you
You looked at me, I looked at you
Something ’bout your eyes bore looking into
Your soul’s reflection came shining through, like dawn sun on morning dew
Your heart was tender, my heart was tired
But your surrender my heart inspired
To rise up and take flight on wings sure and true
I fell in love with you
Soaring! Soaring! Soaring on love for you
Soaring is the word that came to mind when I first thought about this song. I fly paragliders. No walls, no floor, the ceiling is my only tether because that canopy from which I am suspended is my wing. Living in three dimensional movement is the closest thing I know to the joy of free, open, passionate connection to another human.
The story leading into this song field is mainly in another article but I will wonder into that from here since I have not written that introductory article yet. I am still doing things backward.
With the beginning hours of 1999, I packed up the Econoline and headed south. I had been holed up on a little hilltop finca a mile or so from Shasta Dam. I had a great little loft above what had once been a barn. A quiet, secluded place to write the first volume of my intended seven volume autobiography. I called it Bio Back. Its full name was My Autobiography as Seen Through the Possible Causes of My Bad Back.
The paucity of dollar denominated wherewithall was becoming evident. Just yesterday, it seemed, I had been flush. Typically, marketing plan for the book fell short of its great expectations.
So, I headed south to San Diego and turned east. I would join up with I 10 and take it to the Atlantic Ocean unless I ran into interesting employment somewhere along the way. But, it was a good time of year to park on the beach of any key and practice free diving.
I reached Las Cruces without getting shanghaied by an employer or becoming one. I parked En Passant and talked to the muse for a while. “Listen, you know I fear few things more than I fear the people who are left in Texas who are not writers and musicians. And you know I opine that with the exception of the Twin Cities that everything east of the Rockies is a severe mistake and the mistake gets more obvious with decreasing latitude, in my opinion of course. Within that geography rednecks and sphincters abound whose conclusions will be different and sometimes delightfully so. All I am asking, since I am fortunately short of what are commonly called friends, is that you whisper in my ear from time until I get deep enough into Florida to find a cafe where I hear, “Cafe, Amor?”
On the outskirts of El Paso I ensured the voice activated recorder hanging over my third eye was ready to take dictation. By the time I hit the miles long rows of refinery lights of Beaumont and the intensification of the crumbling of I 10, I had finished writing “It’s a Long Way Across Texas” which is a good minor key song if I do say so myself. I had also written a fairly good account of leaving my home in Memphis at the age of 13 to go to Texas to be a cowboy.
I had been talking with some folks in Boca about a contract building a training system for a data mapping company whose stock was going through the roof. When I got to the Gay Memorial in Key West, I stopped driving. I could go no farther. I looked across the Florida Straits toward where I thought Havana was. I thought of the Lyle Lovet tune “If I Had a Boat”. Dang! There I was in Texas and I did not even look up Lyle to thank him for his song.
I grinned at the water. I thought how warmly Fidel would welcome me if I floated into Havana with me and the Econoline and my pony on a boat.
I called the folks in Boca and asked if I should come in for an interview or go free diving. They invited me for an interview.
A week later I was living in a tiny make shift “apartment” in the back of a house in Boynton Beach, just north of Boca Raton and just south of Palm Beach.
Palm Beach is just south what I call the Yokel Line. That line where southern accent begins to get thick enough that you don’t want to step in it. It is also recognized by the change of pronunciation some of which make people ask you what you are laughing about. That is another clue. They always ask what you are are laughing about and never ask why are you laughing. But my favorite is Boca Raton. They say Boca Raton the way people all over the US say Boca Raton, should they ever confront the need. Anyway when you get far enough north in Florida for people to start rhyming Raton with Baton, you are too far north for good coffee.
But just case you ever find a conversation with Boca Raton in it, let me tell you about the name. Let’s start with the irony. Raton means rat. The people who live in Boca Raton would die for fear their insurance would be increasing in cost if the news got out that a rat had been found there.
A boca is a inlet. The long, long reef lying along the east coast of Florida between the inland waterway and the ocean has what? Bocas! Lots of them. Boca Raton was a favored inlet for pirates. Perhaps because Boca Raton in the old days was the home of millions of rats. And a few pirates.
Next song you hear from me will include a little info about my 1999 home in Boynton Beach. I hope you like the song. Direct any thoughts or questions about it to me via a comment. Note you will have to leave your email address in order to leave a comment. But, don’t worry. I will not send you any ratvertisements.
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