Jimmy Scott - The Source - Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child

[ timorous ]

She tidily places herself in between those that speak, gently drifting in the pauses. She is unconsciously consumed by the short inhales of anxious breathing. There she redresses and redistributes herself, flavored in new cadence, tone and pronunciation. She reminds time of its wings, tempts it to take a taste of forever, and abbreviates distances.  She stirs together the evaporated waters from the melted snow, dog piss, spit and street salt, along with the charcoal grey public transportation exhaust fumes, seasonal illness sneezes, and hands-free conversations of the tragic and the trivial in order to sensationalize, convincing some that the mixture of those particles is what makes it aromatic in a way that encourages and invigorates the other senses. Years later, because of its inability to forget such recipes, the brain will arbitrarily engage and adjust attention, stimulated by a similar set of particles carried by a similar set of spring’s transitional breezes wrapped in a similar temperature, and will then enlist a vigorous sift through memory for its origins. Once identified, she will be momentarily revisited, embraced and then slowly suffocated in the grips of the present. Her remains will be neatly placed on another timeline as the tight catalogue of her smells, each one distinct, is dispersed throughout the tattered map.  She tugs lightly on a different understanding of all of every yesterday remembered, cross-referencing and redefining, making each “this time” better than okay and better than the last.  Down some streets she elegantly navigates past everything with little concern. Down others streets she stands in place watching with similar regard for everything as it passes her by.  She waxes and she wanes without permission. She digs and She buries. She does what she wants. She just is what She is. She is.