This is not a photo of me or my ball. My ball is green and my arms will never look like this woman's, but I can balance like this. Mostly I hang out on my back with my arms wide to open my heart and just breathe.
This song popped into my head. Actually, Dear Mr. Fantasy popped into my head, but I didn't feel like paying iTunes $0.99 to download that song. Back when I still had my good alimony, I downloaded lots of songs from iTunes. I already had this one.
I can't say that I've listened to any new music in years unless somebody else introduced me to it. Mostly, that somebody has been Velvet and nothing I've heard from his iPod has convinced me that I need to hear more. Now that I'll be driving to Tree Hugger University and back every so often, I may start listening to the radio again - but I doubt anything as long as this song is on the radio anymore unless it's on a station like Pirate Radio. If there is radio like that out there that I can get in my car without spending any money, I wish somebody would tell me about it.
The thing that got my attention about this song today is that it seems as pertinent to the socio-economic climate as it was back in 1972.
I'm not suggesting that all us old hippy types need to take it to the streets, but if everything revolves around PR and propaganda, progressives should have a campaign too. We could send money to kids who feels like piling into the National Mall in Washington DC. It would be great if they had pitchforks like a mob of unruly peasants looking for aristocrats to lead to the guillotine. An armed progressive militia would be a nice addition. It never seems to occur to Cracker Teabaggers that some progressives have guns of their own and know how to shoot. I would never suggest shooting Crackers or Teabaggers because most likely they have more ammunition stored in their homes than progressives, but a Menopausal Stoners Militia could be a disturbing concept whose time has come.
In addition to stretching on my pilates ball, I like to do arm curls with my great granddaddy's 1912 Remington. One of my favorite Mother role models is Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) in The Terminator. My arms will never look like hers either, but all moms need to be a bad ass sometimes.
Actually, if I'm like any Mom in a movie, it's probably the Katleen Turner character in Serial Mom, Beverly Sutphin:
I've always related to Kathleen Turner and, as it happens, it seems like her body and mine have similar tendencies. No matter what shape Kathleen Turner is in, though, she evidently knows exactly what to do with her body which is a good thing. Sadly, I believe that when she was appearing on Broadway in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf, Kathleen Turner was described as a bovine drunk. Maybe she wasn't a bovine drunk at the time, but somebody said she had hit on the plumber while wearing a dressing gown and holding a bottle of booze. I admire Kathleen Turner and that is undoubtedly a vicious rumor. Nevertheless, it's an alarming picture that carries the warning, "Don't let this happen to you," which is why I'll keep doing arm curls with the shotgun. There will be no Bovine Drunks in the Menopausal Stoners Militia. Other kinds of drunks, for sure - just not bovine ones.
But back to Traffic, Steve Winwood and The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys. I don't know what The Low Spark of High-Heeled boys means. With the inclination and a dead line, a person could write an English paper about it, but the more pertinent message is in the main verse:
The percentage you're paying is too high priced
While you're living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profit he's made on your dreams . . .
If you had just a minute to breathe
and they granted you one final wish
Would you ask for something like another chance?
Good words to ponder on a morning when we're supposed to be celebrating the discoveries and accomplishments of the bloodthirsty marauder Christopher Columbus.