Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

People who know me well know I listen to music constantly. When I walk, run, or ride my bike, I’m almost always wearing my headphones, so I can listen to the playlists I’ve put a lot of care into making. I grew up making mix tapes for myself and for friends, and later burning mixes onto blank CDs. Ah, the eighties and nineties! Now, in this era of streaming music, we have playlists. The playlist is an art in itself: choosing the songs, the order, the transitions between them.

Moving through the world with a personal soundtrack in my ears makes me feel somehow insulated from the world AND more a part of the world. Clouds, birds, buildings, people—I see all of them differently with my favorite songs as the backdrop. The color is dialed up. The observations feel special. A simple walk or bike ride becomes a triumphant scene; you can almost see yourself from the perspective of a viewer. Music makes you feel like the protagonist in a beautifully shot and scored independent film. My teenage daughter would probably say that, with headphones on, I’m moving through the world with “main character energy.” She does it, too!

Today’s poem captures this joyful experience with wit and originality. And it references the soundtrack of my childhood: ‘80s music.

The Difficult Countryside
by John Gallaher

I talk more to trees and mice than I let on. Flies, too.
And cars. Actually, I’m a regular chatterbox
to what doesn’t respond. So I understand prayer.
The way a street’s a street, but catch it right, and with
good framing, the street achieves art. So I get out my bike 
and take off down it, with headphones and a little cloud
of dust. I need to get myself to Marfa and see the lights.

Not really, but saying that gives me a starting point.
I’m having a debate with my third eye. It goes like this:
if I have a deeply unsettling dream about someone,
does it change my perception of them? Should it?
Maybe it should change my perception of me.
Maybe I’m catching some subtle clue my sleep
is trying to warn me about. I ask the trees and mice about it,

the flies and cows. Aren’t we all injured by our art?
All the grandmothers, as one, are banging apple pies
against their kitchen windows, wanting out of our flashbacks.
I wave. I know everyone in this town. I’m filled with purpose,
because playing music makes everything a movie.
I appeared from nowhere, to tell you this. I will be gone 
just as fast, turning the corner of University Drive
 
and Sixteenth Street, spelled out just like that. S I X
T E E N T H. I’ve never been this happy before 
and I don’t know what to do with myself. The wind’s even
at my back. The sun is mostly down, 8 pm. Summer’s
listening, but only to an ‘80s playlist, so we’re safe.
Why isn’t everyone doing this? America! What?
I don’t know. But it feels great out here. The trees say hi.

"The Difficult Countryside" by John Gallaher. Used by permission of the poet.