:: Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club ::

:: Tuesday, February 24, 2004 ::

[w]ri[t]ers on the storm

The backdrop: A rainy day. Mix in some light snow and a little scotch and you have a Tuesday afternoon in New York City.

The mood changes as Jim Croce somberly spews forth a hint of melancholy into his small, but cozy studio. Thoughts of Manhattan are reduced to clam chowder and bustling subway stations. His attention is caught by a face that seems vaguely familiar. His gaze had very likely been inquisitive and tactless; for he became suddenly conscious that the stranger was returning it, and indeed so directly, with such hostility, such plain intent to force the withdrawal of the other's eyes, that he felt an unpleasant twinge and turned away from the mirror.

What was it that was stirring inside him, causing him to lose precious hours of sleep? Perhaps what he felt was no more than a longing to travel; yet coming upon him with such suddenness and passion as to resemble a seizure, almost a hallucination. This yearning for new and distant scenes, this craving for freedom, release, forgetfulness - they were, he admitted to himself, an impulse towards flight, flight from the spot which was the daily theatre of a rigid, cold, and dispassionate toil.

...