Done sold my soul to the devil.

A call to a gravelly voiced night owl let me plan for the next states trip. That stained hand of a man has always kept an eye out for me. I seem to collect the ones rough around the edges. I revel in the grace of irregular shapes. My version of gilding the lily.

I arranged a certain detail that I was afraid wouldn’t happen. But since we two have a certain soft spot for one another, no matter how masked by crass put-downs, we aid when in need of escape.

I call it a loan, he calls it keeps. In any event, no matter how indebted, I must take it for the new grand scheme.

I adore how at times I don’t know I’m waiting, until that precise thing hits. A less romantic spin on the man writing letters of his life to his true love that he’d yet to meet. Something opened and unaddressed, put away somewhere safe.

I’m going to follow that devil music. Making my way through the hometowns of all the blues greats. Charley Patton, Willie Brown, Mississippi Fred, Skip James, H.C. Spier, Kid Thomas, Blind Willie, Son House, Rube Lacy, Tommy Johnson, Hayes McMullan, Big Brazo, David Edwards… You name him, I’ll trace his path. Pay my dues and respects, tip my hat.

Crazy paths through Mississippi, Georgia, Louisiana, Alabama, South Carolina, Tennessee… And wherever else their stories may take me.

Top down, dust in my face, bumpy roads. The cheapest brandy in the best chicory coffee. Hole in the wall bars where real blues are sung. Body to body, barely able to move, letting the heat kill me in the best of ways. Worn guitars to match the hands. Produce off the back of trucks. Rocking chairs and front porches. Big hats and thin clothes. Barefoot and berry stained hands.

I’ll take the summer down there. Maybe put an ad up on Craigslist for company on the drive, or just say screw it and bring Lou along.
I’ve known how to tie scarves for a long time, particularly for these sorts of reasons.

Gritty with bite. Dry and bleeding woes in all the right ways. Learning the best of phrases in the right dialect.

There’s nothing like the blues to make you feel like a woman.

The real kind of woman.