sand through the hourglass

Warm summer nights effortlessly capture my heart. Usually in a setting with stars above and good company close by, it's enchantment is the most soothing I can imagine. Tonight Denison Witmer sang in my car with open window beeze; a moment I didn't easily stop.

When I drove by my old high school I thought of the first time I listened to the Smiths. My friend Danielle liked music as much as me, and we sat in her car one day after school as she introduced me, saying, "I think you'd like them." We liked similar music, and even had a band. One thing we could never agree on, though, was the Beatles. If they ever came up, the topic was usually avoided. She thought they were overrated and poppy; I named my dog after their song "Sexy Sadie."

My other friend Katie wanted to be a rock-star. She was in the band, too, with her bluesy voice leading our way. We always said when she was a famous singer and I a famous rock journalist, we would do an interview like Jack White and Iggy Pop. There's still a chance.

I'd read "The History of Rock and Roll" by Rolling Stone, and felt destined to study rock for my life. One paper written for an English class was even titled, "Drugs, Sex, and Rock n' Roll." Somehow in Catholic school, it came across well. Rock's progression into its current state, evolving from African rhythms brought to the States by slaves, and intermixed with jazz, blues, splashed with innovation, was fascinating. It seemed there was too much to learn. Probably there is, since stacks of interviews, albums, magazines, and even a book or two later, the surface seems only scratched.

Maybe a magical summer night down the road will include the stars, company, and a magazine with my name at the bottom of an interview. We'll have to see.