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It was my last graffiti post, but it was gone before anyone found it. I’m the idiot, because apparently the CTA cleans up their area daily. Even the orange-green signs beneath the stairs heading up to the trains from ground level are stripped before the sun sets. I had to bend down to stick it on, and I didn’t think anyone of authority would notice (though I was terrified during the sticking that someone of authority would notice). It would be cool to spread the word the everyone who went up the steps.  But, CTA didn’t think so.  So only the CTA clean-up person, in her reflector vest, got the word.  Hope she liked it.  I did.

I had highlighted a phrase kinda like it, months ago, in one of my baby moleskin journals. I’m always trying to be crafty and lyrical with the interplay between life and song, writing and music, words and notes and all that. Ultimately, I’m not a lyricist, and nobody but me would call me a writer, but I find the intersection of the arts a brilliant feeding ground for great ideas.  And, if I stick around that chasm, maybe a great idea will come to even me.

For this potential nugget of brilliance to go anywhere, I’d have to explore the dual-meaning of listen, the dual-meaning of blues, the dual meaning of – yep, you guessed it – baby girl.  Their interplay, of course, and the true and hypothetical situations that play out those details as images.  Does it seem like a stretch? Probably is, which is why I started small on a sticky label.  You could say, CTA ruined my dream.

There’s something between music and reality that holds weight.  Something to be said about the deepest blues of her broken heart and the pentatonic scale solos that drive her home.  There’s a parallel to be explored and anatomized between the tears that blur her vision of the highway and the moans from bended strings that blanket her absence from these walls.  It isn’t forced, I’m sure.  The chasm isn’t really so wide at all.  None of it’s really that different.  Just listen.

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