With the windows down and the music up loud, I drove south out of the N.C. mountains today on Highway 441. On a whim, I brought along Recovering the Satellites, the Counting Crows album that came out my senior year of high school and turned me into a die-hard fan. I can't remember the last time I listened to it in its entirety. But today, I did.
I had forgotten about the song "Another Horsedreamer's Blues" even though it was one of my favorites on the album. I was reminded of the passage I used to listen to, rewind and listen to again and again...
"Margery's wingspan's all feathers and Coke cans and TV dinners and letters she won't send. And every race night is shot through with sunlight. Trying to hit the big one one last time tonight for drunken fathers and stupid mothers and boys who can't tell one girl from another. So she takes her pills - careful and round - one of these days she's gonna throw the whole bottle down but she's trying to be a good girl and give them what they want."
Granted, I didn't have a drunken father or a stupid mother, but I did mostly think the boys in high school couldn't tell one girl from another. It was the part about trying to be a good girl and give them what they want - there was something about the way it was sung, so angry and defiant. Searching for what it was they wanted.
And at times - even at 31 - I still feel like that 17-year-old girl with clipped wings trying so hard to fly right. Trying so hard to live up to expectations. And sometimes, in a moment, rolling down the asphalt at 65 mph with my red hair whipping in the wind, I realize that I'm a stranger to myself in the mold and so familiar to myself instead with the early spring sun turning my hair to fire.
