I don’t write music reviews. But after listening to Josie Edwards’ song for the second time, vivid images flooded my mind. It felt like a battle pitchfork cry—dark and raw in its lyrics, yet yipping like a poetic coyote skipping through a field.
Maybe I’ll write something. Maybe I’ll even message her on Instagram, see if she’d answer a couple of questions about her music.
But right now, we’re in meltdown city. Evelyn’s sleepover got bumped to next week, and the weight of her disappointment hangs in the house like a heavy stocking from Saint Nick. Her eyes—red and puffy—look like a raccoon mask. The sadness is thick. It fills the corners.
I feel the urge to escape, not because of that – just because. But not in a blow-it-all-up-and-flee-to-Acapulco kind of way, but in a quieter sense. Like something deeper isn’t working. Like I’m on the wrong track and can’t see where I’m headed. Worse, I don’t trust where it’s going.
My dreams last night mirrored this tension. In one, I’m surrounded by vague, plastic-feeling people—half-shell humans. I’m sitting on the floor, assembling something—some kind of set—at a hollow hour of the morning. There’s a quiet desperation. A woman walks by, disproving, a shadow, then gone. I want to run. I beg to be known. But I’m frozen. Shackled in place amongst the mannequin people of my past.
What is this feeling, other than terrifying?
It feels like being swallowed by erosion. Like I’m an invisible ghost at the edge of a crumbling riverbank. I want to scream. But in the dream, a hand covers my mouth. Shushes me.
I startle awake. But the negative thinking is already there, perched on my shoulder like a crow. It whispers that I’m a degenerate. Irresponsible. Pathetic. Not in direct words—more like smoke signals. A flicker, a stain, gone before I can name it.
I can’t catch it.
I can’t stop it.
I can’t escape.
But what if I don’t have to?
What if I just sit beside it?
Let it burn. Let it pass. Let it ripple through. Not chasing it out or tamping it down. In the surrender, there’s the slightest shift—like letting go of a rope I didn’t realize I was pulling so tightly. Splashing into a deep, cool pool. It doesn’t mean I’m okay. It means I’m here.
So I’ll lean my back against the chair, pushing my toes into the carpet, and listen to the clack of the keys. I’ll feel the soft breath of the fan on my cheek. The sound of running water in the kitchen sink. The soft clink of Archie’s collar.
And for now, that’s enough.
Settling in toa back float feels… almost nice.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 