Spent this evening doing laundry, reading the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and listening to a Gillian Welch album that I bought for exactly one stick of butter from my downstairs neighbor.
I've felt the need for new music. It's time for a revival of self, and when I lack all concentration to read, music engages me on an entirely different plane of soul. (Sometimes I think a better one; don't shoot me, fellow literature-lovers.) Literature raises consciousness, often by breaking; music, even while breaking, heals.
I don't know if I entirely believe what I just wrote, but for right now, there it is. I'll have to think about it further. I only know that when I need something to stitch the lips of a spiritual gash together, I turn to music.
So in addition to Utah Phillips, I've ordered some albums by Sufjan Stevens and Bright Eyes. (One of those semi-self-destructive moments of pure rebellion against the possibility of future financial squeakiness. But I kept it to a minimum.)
I wish the mail were faster. I want them now.
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