DAHLIAS ON A PLATE

In our universe, it is 1987, and I’m staying up until 3 am most nights, reading and writing.

In this universe, to all outward appearances, I am adrift. My friend sends me a postcard from California with a big picture of Earth as seen from space. “Wish you were here” is all he writes on the reverse. He doesn't mean California.

Internally, however, I am being reshaped, reformed. Redeemed.

A good friend comes to me with several demos that had been put together by some acquaintances of his, who have been playing with Suzanne Vega. The demos are musically polished, but the vocals are just an ethereal oohing.

He gives these to me as an exercise, as a way to cast form the loose words that have been spilling out.

The next day I send him Spanish Wings...