I grew up in Wyoming. The whistling and howling of the wind through cracks in my bedroom window was a formative (and often terrifying) childhood experience.  Now, I sometimes crack my windows to create a similiar sound. Now, the shrieking of the wind is comforting.

I have been listening to lots of different things over the past month, but I have not been writing about the songs, the artists, the circumstances, the technology. It's not for lack of things to say. I guess I've just been more into thinking about it rather than writing about it. Which may signal an onslaught of upcoming blog posts, when the levee breaks. This week I heard two songs in situations that struck me as incongruous:

First, on a street corner near Madison Square Park, a busker playing Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead Or Alive on solo alto saxophone. Surprisingly angsty!

Second, on the street in front of my apartment building, a large, sleek black car with tinted windows and shiny hubcabs playing Roy Orbison's Only The Lonely, loudly. Why did this surprise me?

From this book: On the fifth day, which was Sunday, it rained very hard. I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.