Thrill of the Ordinary

Magical stuff that's there everyday!

Rickie Lee sits there,
quietly, 
modestly,
in a straight-backed chair, 
in the middle 
of a small stage
in a misty grove
of Eucalyptus trees 
and schrubbery,
tucked away 
in a far corner 
of Golden Gate Park
at Hardly Strictly,
reading from her book,
Last Chance Texaco,
in that scratchy,
sexy voice  
that still delights.

Rickie Lee Jones reading recently at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in Golden Gate Park, SF.

Still the sage
troubadour, 
she continues 
to enlighten and entertain,
connecting dots 
previously unseen
behind those 
much younger 
misty eyes
and wry smiles.

Rickie Lee Jones, 1981, promotional photo for release of her album Pirates.

But her message
remains clear -- 
nurture the thrill
of the ordinary -- 
which her songs
always reveal. 

Her words 
hit me 
the next day
when I pick up
and peel 
the blue plastic bag
off the morning's 
New York Times
laying 
in my driveway.

When I fill
the coffee maker
with six cups of water 
and the filter 
with seven heaping tablespoons
of Major Dickinson's,
as we like it strong.

When I pull down 
our favorite cups,
yours emblazened 
with an abstract octopus, 
its spirit animal tenacles
wrapping wildly,
entirely, 
around the cup; 
mine from Lowell's Boat Shop
with it's simple logo
of the famed
Banks dory. 

When the kibble 
rattles in the bottom
of the dog's metal dish
and again when
I squirt in 
two shots 
of fish oil
to ease the aches
in her old hips.

Today!

Her words 
bite again, when
I settle in
behind the screen
staring into my inbox,
checking in 
on what's been 
happening in
the past 12 hours.

Again, when 
I unplug 
and stare out 
my office window
and see a string 
of distant planes
lined up to the horizon,
lumbering toward 
their arrival 
at SFO.

Her words
hit even harder
when I step out
into the backyard,
coffee in hand,
bare feet gauging 
the cold stones 
of the patio
and then 
the dewy grass.

Then, when
I notice 
the bird feeder
and bird bath, 
one empty,
one bone dry,
no seeds,
no water, 
no birds!

Again, when
I hear the neighbor's
yappy dog 
barking at the kids
walking down the street
to school,
car doors slamming,
parents reminding
their little ones
to watch the traffic,
excited young voices 
and racing feet
rising about it all.

Her affinity 
for the ordinary,
everyday,  
is a welcome salve
for an extrordinarily 
dark time.

A reach,
for sure, 
but I'm reading alot into
the lyrics 
of her song 
The Returns:

'There are such things
And these are the things
Who'll turn your memories back into dreams again.'