she talks to angels

one of the compelling women i think about at times is the subject of the black crowes’ she talks to angels. you never know what she looks like, where she lives, why the singer even knows her. in fact, the singer bemoans the fact that she pretty much lies. a lot. which, of course, makes you wonder why he gives a crap about a junkie. i mean, so many people write off addicts. plenty of people start down the sordid path due to their own idiocy, not knowing that they flirt with an illness, a disease much more powerful than themselves. why is she muse-worthy, i wonder.

i’m reminded of a bit in the film (and yes, novel) trainspotting, thinking about how Renton talks about final hits; and i’m wondering whether this unnamed woman is close to her’s:

She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket
She wears a cross around her neck
Yes, the hair is from a little boy
And the cross is someone she has not met, not yet

Says she talks to angels,
Says they all know her name

anyway, G-d knows that there are other junkies out there in rock; there are even dealers, people in hot pursuit of something not-so-legal (i’m thinking about vocal powerhouse joan osborne and st. teresa), all sorts wandering the lyrical streets.

but of course this one has no name.


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