And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Music and books nourish the soul. So why do I go on jags of starving my essence?
Some songs strike a primal chord within me. The combination of tones and meaningful words delight even the Eeyore that I am. A feeling of warmth, almost palpable, envelopes me when I hear certain songs. (That same feeling overcomes me when I think of you.)
I wonder what draws me to certain songs and what combinations of notes repel me. Joan Baez comes to mind. Her voice soothes, her music, too. Tom Petty stirs the rebel in me. Leonard Cohen speaks me; he knows me, I swear he does.
Willie represents the dance hall rowdy Saturday night I am proud to be a Texan me.
Then there is Kinky. Kinky hits the mark, no doubt. Irreverent. Witty. Character. I mean anyone who could write "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed." Enough said.
Kinky's fiction combines Hunter Thompson and Raymond Chandler with a little Dr. Seuss thrown in. His columns in Texas Monthly hold no punches.
I have downed my share of the classics thanks to my English teachers in my early years.
I prefer to feed my mind candy, though. Oh no, not bodice rippers. Slasher novels. Detective fiction. Classic whodunits. The Kellermans, Faye and Jonathan; Patricia Cornwell; Agatha Christie; Mary Roberts Rinehart; the Prey series; and oh so many more.
When I get the itch to read, I might consume four or more books a week. I have not participated in a reading marathon in awhile. I feel the itch, though. No, not long now.