songs for broken hearts, no. 35

A hep cat interpretation of Purple Haze. Dig the groovy flute and bongos, and check out how to the menacing sounding strings add drama and a low-level sense of unease. ...I picture myself in a Greenwich Village bachelor apartment, sitting Indian style on a Persian rug with a handful of friendly strangers. A peace pipe gets passed around and a beautiful orange cat sleeps peacefully in the bookshelf. I'm in a semi-trance as I watch a blob moving on the wall, created by the reflection of the overhead light on the record as it spins round 'n round on the phonograph. 'What's your trip?' the girl sitting next to me asks. Her hair is black. She wears colorful beads and smells like strawberries. The question startles me out of my waking reverie. I tell her I'm searching for something, trying to make sense of life's riddles. 'I don't like riddles,' she says. 'Jokes I like, riddles not so much.' But it's all a big riddle, I tell her. Not liking riddles is kind of like not liking air or water. Elemental substances. 'Air I can deal with she says, as long as it's clean. You wouldn't know much about clean air, coming from Los Angeles and all.' I tell her that cleanliness is next to godliness. It's a stupid cliche, and I regret saying it the moment it escapes my mouth. I was just trying to impress her. She has striking green eyes. I often regret things I say right after I say them. 'I don't believe in god,' she says. I ask her what she does believe in. She takes her turn with the peace pipe and thinks about my question. 'I believe love will get you to where you wanna go,' she finally says after blowing out a large cloud of smoke. I tell her I don't have anyplace to go. 'Then just be here now,' she says. And wait for love to give you the call.' She closes her eyes, takes in the music's dazed vibe, and smiles blissfully. I go back to watching the light blob rotating on the wall...