It starts with a borrowed house full of books and a parrot and a piano. Then it spills over into best friends in gowns and a graveyard picnic. Books, like cemeteries, are liminal: we walk through their gates and back out again, altered, touched by the diaphanous flutter of invisible wings.
The geneses of this song: a community theater rehearsal of Alice in Wonderland in which I played a ballet-dancing flower; a post-rehearsal trek on foot to a Ballard warehouse with a giant bonfire outside and a raging jam session in which I improvised a tune to the nursery rhyme Miss Muffet; the party’s Bacchanalian host, John Foss, standing in the middle of the road, drunk, serenading the universe with “If I was a helicopter, I’d make all your parties!” And then, sitting in my Laurelton apartment watching the rain fall for days on end, writing my version of his visit from the muse.
Ideal love is a necessity. It returns us to childhood when we believed in fairies and lined up our stuffies on our beds to fight the evil forces blocking our entrance into the kingdom. We all belong there, which is why we love stories and can never get enough even though we know that life is full of potholes along the way.