"A distorted reality is now a necessity to be free."  Elliott Smith

 

Few things are more satisfying for Miss Mouth than driving aimlessly on a dreary Astoria day listening to Elliott Smith.  Though the thought of this activity would drive Ms. Mouth's beau to ream hot pokers in his ears, The Mouth finds it very soothing. (The Mouth's BF claims the Elliott Smith, when he was alive, used cheap guitar strings that create an intolerable squeaking sound, which drives him (BF) nearly psychotic with annoyance.  Ms. Mouth claims the squeak effect comes from a conscious production decision to keep the byproducts of strumming in the music, which is at once charming and pure.  Regardless, Ms. Mouth is banned from playing Elliott Smith in the car when the BF is present.)

 

So, where were we, ah, driving, Elliott, the wind, the ever-present rain. Smith is melancholy, even on the rare occassions he is somewhat hopeful.  And let's face it, the coast is a melancholy, moody place in the winter.  It drives some folks over the edge, but the Mouth finds it suitable for the shifting currents that are always at work inside  of her.

 

Today, as with so many others, it is grey.  Grey skies, silver rain, grey water in the estuary lapping up against black rocks.  It is in this greyness that Astoria really shines. Its multi-colored Victorians that look as if they were hand-colored from an old black and white reel, are the only hues that break up the monotony of sky and water.  In the middle of this oppressive greyness the houses hold the hope of warmth, of afghan draped laps and hot tea.  Good books and curling up with your dog on a favorite couch.

 

And maybe this is the lure of the aimless driving with Elliott Smith as a co-pilot.  In the middle of the hopelessness that can bog us all down there is the beautifully clear voice that feels like memory, like kinship, like not being alone in your darkest thoughts.  It is the rosy hued walls of an old house that beckons you inside to rest your weary bones beside a fire.

 

But then again, maybe that's just the Mouth's idea of a perfect rainy day...It beats hot pokers in the ear.