A Note on the Lyrics
Scott Garson
Really the song isn't mine anymore once it is released and played in cars and stores and auditoriums that are part of what you will remember as part of your life, which—obviously, I am not there, so I cannot guess at the shape of your mind as you listen to me in the cereal aisle, though yes, what you hear is my voice—unalloyed (Vocoder? I don't think so)—and yes, I wanted, in a way, to give you just that variable you prize in whatever you hear. The song is a bridge. You know that. Duh. But not steady: a bridge that each time—and second by second—remakes itself, recombines, and since my part is done, it's all you, basically, which is just what I started out saying: in bedrooms, on truck-stop gas-station speakers, on headphones, the song is yours; so I would shut up, I would not even say anything were it not for some people—why bolster their names?—who do what they can to get you to think that the song is a cipher, over you head; therefore, you need them to experience it in the right way—which, hopefully you know, is bullshit, even if those espousing the view feel helpful and kind as they speak: because the song isn't theirs; the song is between you and me; and if that's not enough—if you want to hear more—I'll tell you this final thing: I'll have you imagine me writing the song at the bus stop, or on my front steps, with crust in my eye, with fog at the base of my skull; but my hands find their way in the strings, and now you are here: the fact, the wildness of you as a person—and me, both of us: because the moment has come undressed. This is what I was intending, all right? You and I, in the swell of that rhythm guitar.
A great water. The whites of our eyes.
