Michelle Branch
Everywhere

Dream or Reality?

It's late morning at the end of July, and it's hot, too hot.
Plunging my feet in the freezer didn't help, nor did playing hide and seek with myself in the fridge. The stickiness of the heat seeps into my body, clings to my skin, and becomes annoyingly hard to remove. I decide to take a stroll, perhaps to a bar to drink something super-hyper-mega-techno-cool. I step into a small bar next to the station, wearing black pants and a blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I left home with a near-celestial smile just two minutes ago, and already have the impression that a long sweat stain has drenched my shirt under my armpits. It feels like a curse. The door closes behind me with a loud "thud."

"Good morning," says the waitress's smile. She looks incredibly like a nymph from the music world.

Oh dear! What's her name? The one who made that splendid song and then disappeared... Michaela Brunch? No, but something similar. Of course! Michelle Branch!
I hum to myself one of her songs, "Are You Happy Now?", and return the greeting to the sweet lass. She wears a pristine uniform and is busy cleaning the counter with a rag that seems worth pennies. Her long brown hair cascades down her shoulders, often falling over her eyes. Without lifting her gaze from the countertop, she smiles and says, "What can I get you?"

"A strawberry milkshake, thanks!" 

But is that really Michelle? I widen my eyes, fidget with my keys, press random buttons on my phone. All to avoid falling into the dream trap. In the background, a horrible Italian song of which I ignore, or want to ignore, the title plays. All I know is that every verse ends with the word "Punto." I hope for a change, for goodness' sake! 

Then, suddenly, the unlistenable piece gets killed by my savior: the smoothie machine.

VUUUUUUM! It sounds like a crazed chainsaw. VUUUUUUUM! The song seems muted, as if it's saying, "No! Don't kill me! No! Have mercy!" I almost feel like replying, "Don't blame the chainsaw, blame whoever wrote you." 

I pull out a pack of cigarettes from my pants pocket and light one (don't hassle me, it's a dream). It almost feels like being in a Tsai Ming-liang film. An eerie silence, apart from the industrial noise of the machine. Correction: the remake of "Tetsuo" shot by Tsai Ming-liang. Just me. Just her.

No other living soul but those living beyond the mirror. The smoke from the cigarette creates swirling and poetic elliptical images in the atmosphere. I observe them with curious eyes. I rest the cigarette on the ashtray, tap the ashes, and bring it back to my lips. My lips grow numb. I feel myself wavering in that dream/non-dream atmosphere. Michelle's hair swirls in the breeze. She's in profile and has turned off the infernal machine. 

'Cause You're Everywhere to me
And When I Close My Eyes It's You I See
You're Everything I know
That makes me believe
I'm not alone...

The previous unspeakable song is dead.

Buried.

It's gone.

Dead stiff. It's been gutted from the first note to the last and poured out mediocrity in streams. 

In its place, there's an invisible guitar.

Tududun Tudun tududun tudundunduuuunduuun...
Just when I began to think it was the usual idiocy without substance, here comes a little voice. A little girl. Yes, it's her. Ironically, it's Michelle Branch. That damned girl haunts me. Even on the radio.

Needless to say. I start singing "Everywhere": I'm embarrassed but I like it.

Yes. I like it.

And do you know what I do? I shout it out to the world.

THIS SONG I LIKE IT SO MUCH! After all, it's a dream. My throat hurts, and my voice echoes endlessly in the bar.

"Everywhere" is a catchy song. It's not profound, it's not classy, but that doesn't matter. The fact is, it's one of those tracks that, despite not concealing any form of pure art, turn out to be absolutely enjoyable and listenable thousands upon thousands of times.
And it's especially in summer that this song fits perfectly because it's in summer when our hidden child runs wild with premature hormones. Because it's in summer that I listened to this song sleeping at the station after Bjork's (fantastic) concert, waiting for a train that never arrived.

I recover.
I try to shake off the sentimentality.

And I start singing again. It's a mania. 

It may have an unoriginal text, but this is a love testament that, in its lyrical simplicity, hides spontaneity.

Michelle arrives, leaves my frappé on a table with a smile, and whispers to me "Cause you're everywhere to me..."

Epitaph of a dream. 

Cows fly. I see them flying outside the window. Michelle stands still, upright at the table with a plate in hand.
The smile is static. I leave some money on the table and tell her, "Keep the change."

Damned nymphette.

You managed to get an extra ten cents out of a tightwad addicted to patience and art without hope. You're a witch, you are! Oh yes! 

You managed to entrance me with your cheap little song.
And I don't care about its artistic value. I listen to it. I like it. I enjoy it.
I begin to twirl the straw on the cream's surface. It traces little hearts.

Then I bring the drink to my mouth, and it starts to flow. In a moment of distraction, a few rebellious drops fall from my mouth and end up on the shirt collar, moistening it.
She is still. She hasn't taken the money. I put the transparent glass back on the table and stand up.

I leave, with the intention of going home: now it's cold, it's freezing, damn it!

I hum "Everywhere" to lift my spirits, and only now I remember: I left my heart in the bar.

On the chair. Does it still beat? Who knows?