there is something about solange and the busan subway that allows the two to work.
maybe it’s the in-between tempo of the songs on TRUE—not drawn out, not harried—and how i feel my feet ready to dance and stay put at the same time;
the rhythm parallels the particular hubbub of bodies on the metro, a regularly timed ebb and flow. the vehicle continuously moving: even when the metal stops, the people don’t. from my corner seat view, sneakers and heels and brogues and sandals shuffle across the floor to: we’d accidentally meet purposely.
(here, the priority seat for pregnant women, umbrella standing between my knees. in front of me, a wrist wearing a baby blue watch with plastic diamonds around its face. across the aisle, new sneakers with blue laces, worn with tight black jeans and a shirt that says PARISIEN. three seats away, a corncob bitten into, a joke told.)
in a certain sense, the sadness of some things never seem to fucking work is hidden, understated. there is the seem, and not once the mention of tears. but the beauty of this song for me is in the heartache laid bare; the song so avoids becoming a pity-inspiring narrative. some things never seem to fucking work—she states, she sings. if this is a tragedy it is a tragedy made plain, because tragedies, like comedies, are mundane. so maybe then we’re better off, and we near our next stop-destination.
(written 2014. 08)