I went outside, belly full of Wellington County beer, to declare “the Beatles” the best damn band in the universe.
The sky yanked my head up.
“See the pretty clouds, white, with pinky-orange?”
They drifted from the west.
“Yes,” I answered, “They are beautiful.”
My head drooped, hair hanging in my eyes.
I dared say nothing about the Beatles.
The problem with analysis, the over-academic analysis of every little thing, is that if you analyzed the Beatles to a fault when they were 18, you would have wasted your time once you let them get to 30.
This doesn’t have to make sense. But freeze things as they are, they might not become what they will.
Clouds have a way of disrupting the music. When I went back out, the clouds had moved to grey and the neighbour’s music was too loud. And their screen door slams.
Rain flooded the basement, and my eyes itch with mould. I’ve switched from beer to coffee.
“…every study of the gods, of everyone’s gods, is a revelation of vengeance toward the innocent.”(John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany.)
From the doorstep, 9:47 p.m. there is a darkness, an inky blackness in the west, but overhead, a deep deep twilight blue and clear enough to see the stars. A woman walks past, right arm swinging. Two bicyclists whirr down the hill. And of course cars, loud on the wet pavement.
“The Beatles were the greatest band in the universe,” I whisper. But the universe pays them no mind.