In Which I Voyage Through My Atlas of Stevie Nicks
“Sara” reminds me of our 2-bedroom apartment in Raleigh, staring out the metal framed windows on rainy afternoons waiting for Dad to come home.
“Wild Heart” brings back the tiny loft apartment I stayed in one summer home from college, where I had no over or stove only a hot plate.
“If Anyone Falls” reminds me of the burnt orange shag carpet in the living room, where I watched USA’s “Night Flight” for videos, since we didn’t have MTV.
“Sometimes It’s A Bitch” brings back the late nights at the Village Advocate Classifieds office counter.
“Leather and Lace” reminds me of painting my Dad’s new office.
“Talk To Me” surrounds me with the painted cement walls of Kitchin Dorm where I yowled that song incessantly while drunk. (Sorry, former dormmates).
“I Can’t Wait” pulls me back to the double-wide trailer I lived in off campus, and the sunken soccer field near it that I once tripped balls on.
“One More Big Time Rock And Roll Star” puts me back in the driver seat of my beat-up beige Dodge as I drove from Wilmington to Greenville, windows rolled down in the muggy summer heat.
“Love’s a Hard Game to Play” transports me to smoking cigarettes on the splintery gray picnic bench at a friends’ we were house-sitting for, and realizing it was true.
“Ghosts” through “Doing The Best I Can” on The Other Side of The Mirror puts me back on my bike, racing up and down hills, around campus and the dorms as I tried to figure out what happened next after I graduated.
“Edge of Seventeen” is the basement theater in a Mexican restaurant in Silverlake where I played the Robot in a musical called “Lust In Space.”
“Every Day” lays me on the overstuffed comforter in the Tim Albrecht Memorial Bedroom, on a sunny day, watching the shears push back in forth in the breeze.
“Italian Summer” twirls me to the hard, yellowy laminate floor of my rental house on Coffeeville, with the broiling heat of Las Vegas barely subdued by the air conditioning.
“Gypsy” has me going back to the back yard in Mom’s house, dancing silently with a Walkman on and going back … to the velvet underground.
“Rhiannon” puts me in great seats with my friend from Russia at the Irvine Amphitheater, her first American concert, and the night sky perfect and clear.
“Gold Dust Woman” puts me on the porch of my godson’s house in San Diego, hammocked and happy with beer.
“Stand Back” puts me everywhere, every time, but most often playing pool in a dive bar in Ocean Beach, when I thought the world would never stop opening up to me. I’m glad it hasn’t.