Bardo

There's an antique store called "Bardo" near the Carmel Market. It always seems to be closed when I pass but late last week it was open. So I walked inside the store that has captivated me since I moved here--partly because it's named after a Tibetan Buddhist term meaning state of existence between birth and death, varying in length according to one's conduct in life and the store appeared to be filled with Eastern European family heirlooms that of course made me think of the Holocaust. So while the store beautifully displayed porcelain dolls and antique books and lace dresses and silver candelabras, all I could think of was bardo--a place between death and life, a shop filled with stories of so many lives, many of them, I would assume, terribly tragic.

And it all made me quite sad, despite the fresh fruits and pungent za'atar and warm pita wafting from the market. So I did, as I often do when sad, I turned on the blues. When sad the last thing I want is a happy song to try and talk me out of a feeling. I want someone to sing to me of their sadness. And better still if they don't find a solution to their sadness but

just belt out their woes. And on this particular day I reached for Koko Taylor.

Listening to her, I knew I'd be ok. Or, at least I wasn't alone in not being ok. And then then I got home, I wrote these words:

Koko

In all jazz, and especially the blues, there is

something…authoritative and double-edged.

James Baldwin

Today it’s Koko and I close

my eyes, listen to her sing about

going blind. Rather than see

her man walk away, her pain

burning in my veins. And

somehow hearing her voice

all raspy and rough I know

I’ll be okay, but which I mean—

it’s ok to not be ok. To shake

all feral and fetal from a

morning of crying of missing

and longing for a thousand things

I can’t name or even begin to

find. I tell myself keeping

time that pain is a story we

all tell and that hell is

not in tears but the fears that

you’re all alone in your blue

tones and hollow notes,

baby, baby she sings at the end,

and I’m certain she’s singing to me.

I'll leave you with this question--what do you reach for when you're sad? Bach? Borges? A Maya Angelou poem? For me...all of the above.