19 Feburary 2023: Hoping to call up some grad-school-intense-writing-session vibes, I am listening to my Collin Raye albums on shuffle. In the old days, I'd put six of his CDs in the changer and dive into hours and hours of writing. But it's been years (I think?) since I've done this, so I decided to attempt a digital version.
Anyway, just found myself tearing up at "Little Rock," a song that has always gotten to me but hits differently ever since I lost my brother to addiction.
The line that gets me every time? "Sorry that I cried when I talked to you last night...," which just quietly crashes into what has come before and then leads to the first chorus.
But every line of it works so well. The specificity of the references ("selling VCRs in Arkansas at a Walmart"), and devastating other stories lurking in the lyrics ("Jesus would forgive, but a daddy don't forget") hint at the whole world of pain before the song's opening. The song's build--classic country ballad stuff--feels so earned. So, too, does the muted shakey determination of its ending. How will things turn out for this speaker? Who knows? He thinks he's on a roll "here in Little Rock" and that he's "solid as a stone," but is he? It hangs there.
"Sorry that I cried when I talked to you last night." It's just so much; an apology, a plea, a hand reaching out. Shew.
And there goes 15 minutes of writing, but not on my book. Oh well. Back to work I go. The mix has shuffled on to another song. Sorry that I cried when I was supposed to be writing.
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