Legendarium"Its like watching the best movie ever, says The Author, but you canonly explain it to others using sign language.Might as well show photos to the blind.The Author onstage: her soft hands in the pocketsof a green panda hoodie. Black emo glasses, short hair.Any and every unassuming student.Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: Recycled news footageof fans in line for 6 am signings and midnight releases.The camera pansover breathless, expectant, bespectacledfaces in robesand wizard hats.When you have a story in your head for this long, it becomes everything.Shes drawing faces in the margins of notes, faces shes been drawingfor well on twelve years. Shes writtenabout as many pages.Its not the fame I want, not exactly. Not in this industrywhere pop is king and your novel is only worthso many matinee movie tickets. She says, Anyway, itd make a horrible movie.
Sung on a Southern SaturdayAint no streetcars to the Southlandsthe Lowlands, the Badlandsno more trains run through the Flatlandsat least not anymoreBut down at the crossroadsthe suns gettin goneRhythms got her red shoes onImprovs shinin up his hornFlows slidin up to Jazz real slowso slowand thereshe dont blush, she been aroundBluesmans tunin his steel guitar(won from the Devil in a rigged game of cards)he smiles his smile, egret White--girl, can you play the blues?