It’s hard to type with Bailey sitting on my lap. I’m at the long table in the dining room. Bailey’s claws are pressing into my knee. He’s balanced here, his chin on my laptop, purring away. When I type, he shifts around to gaze into my face adoringly. He wants nothing more than to be with me every minute of every day. When I leave him behind to go to NYC or Bridgehampton, he finds evil ways to repay me for my absence, but for now he is gloriously happy. His face burrowed into the crook of my elbow, he’s started to snore.
It’s a quiet and gray Wednesday afternoon. The air feels dense with more snow coming. Last night it came down in big, floating puffs. I walked out of yoga class into it and was immediately lifted up. It never gets old, the miracle of the first snow falling. This will be my tenth winter here on the North Fork, or is it nine? I get confused. I don’t feel like I’ve been here anywhere near that long. Time speeds by.
I’m working on a mambo for a DW project. Or maybe it’s a rumba. Mostly, I’m listening these last couple of days, to other songs, to get the feel of what I want to do. It’s an interesting process, this listening without remembering too much. I don’t want to copy these other songs, but I need to get a feel. I like the song, “Sway.” The Dean Martin version. There’s also a version on Youtube by a young French artist, who has 44 songs on Youtube (in every one he is seated in the exact same position), that I also quite like. When I start to write, though, my song is more Mark Anthony than Dean Martin. I need a little more mambo immersion, so back I go to listening.
It gets so island-like out here in winter. In a way, it’s a good thing. No distractions. So quiet. I hear every sound of the house. The Oil burner kicks on, Bailey crunches on his cat food, my fingers click, click, click on the keys. I don’t want to go out to the studio. I’d have to turn on the heat out there and wait for it to warm up. I’d rather sit here at this table with my guitars and a cup of tea. It feels like there’s no one else in the world right now. No bird sounds. No cars. Nothing, but the sound of the house, my hands, my breath, Bailey’s footsteps.
Outside the snow has started to come down in wet drops as I listen to a mambo.