If I Could Write...

I've been in deadline hell until now, working on deals and a draft on behalf of Harvard for a National Institute of Health grant that if successful will automatically process tens of millions of calls and provide data to unlock the secrets of nutrition and correlate them with health outcomes. You know, same-old same-old.

So I went YouTubing (Trademark pending) and just typed in the first thing that popped into my head without thinking: Sam Phillips. One gut-wrenching singer. English. Classy. Artiste. Pretty. A little crazy, and smart as hell. Imagine the poetry of "not waving, drowning" set to post-war dance-hall music sung by a stunning, laser-blue eyed chanteuse in a lively, relieved and hopping resort on the English coast a few summers after World War Two, and you're starting to cop a Sam Phillips feel. The YouTube feed is jaggy and set to some show called Rory & Dean which I've never heard of, but Sam's from a past which always existed, echoes in our dreams, and whispers across the skies. Take your best gal or guy, give Sam a chance and do an easy slow dance. If I could write:

If I could write, I'd set all the words free:
to follow you.
Tell you wonders, tell you secrets, and solitude!
I've had to let go of so Much it's hard to hold on, now;
something far off is pulling me,
and when I go this time,
I don't think I'm coming back.

I took your ring that never comes off, and put it on:
sorry to lose you, sorry to keep you after you were gone.
Nothing is small, nothing is unexpected
I want more, and when I go this time
I don't think I'm coming back.

Desire is the element that I can't fight.
Dream is the arm of God;
girl's looking for themselves in your eyes,
I'm looking for you.
What's this supposed to be, some kind of perfect?
I want more, and when I go this time,
don't think I'm coming back.
Don't think I'm coming back.