music is a rite of passage

The kitchen is hot, the oven is on and a shepherd’s pie cooks.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan sings to me, like he has sang to me for so many years. 

I found him like one finds a favorite word. 

I went to the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in 1994 and watched “Natural Born Killers” with my sister and her girlfriend. They hated it. Meanwhile, I became completely obsessed with this film, and its soundtrack. Oh my god, the soundtrack.

It was the song that came on while Mallory drove, whizzing and hurdling on the screen. Shaking to this voice, rattling to this voice. Cartoon demons hovering. She smokes a cigarette. She’s out looking for an imbecile that can act the part of Mickey in her head. She’s in a daze.

Mickey is at the hotel torturing their hostage.

She’s sexy—dangerous, she is fire. She smokes circles to the sky.

The song fades.

The song was Taboo by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

It is the little things I hold on to.

It is the music I hold on to.

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