the other more

Listening to Beth Orton's new one, The Comfort of Strangers. Aptly named, since this cd was sent to me (a glorious surprise) by fellow WW wonderwoman, Maddy (http://bodytales.blogspot.com). This is listen #5, officially. Dear amama, how did you know?

I've listened to Beth Orton since her first release "Trailer Park," (a fucking brilliant album) and reach for her more often than most...it's funny how that happens, me being the music junkie that I am (esp. women artists with folk roots), how I find myself pulled back to some artists time and time again when others--ones I was have nuts about two,three years ago--they just gather dust on the rack.

But this woman. Her voice soothes me, her melodies can transform an ordinary day into something otherworldly. Sometimes she misses, as I think she did with most of Central Reservation, but when she hits, it's hard, and it sticks.

Comfort of strangers. Weight Watchers puts you right there, right in the midst of a throng you don't know. You're hanging out your dirtiest laundry, confessing to the binge and the turkey meatball extravaganza and the occasional (gasp!) jolly rancher...and you do it voluntarily. And all alone.

Sitting in rooms, offices, on couches and deck chairs, in a computer lab between classes--all these hopeful, struggling people log on and encounter legions that are just like them. People who yearn for the Other More. The Something Better. Those who seek comfort in an online community of hunger, a growling village. Drink eighty oz. and ye shall be cleansed.

O for the chance to live without encumbrances

I am one of those people. I lean into the hard wind of choice and keep walking. I look to my right, and my left, and I see the faces of beautiful women, all sizes and colors and ages, walking right along with me. We call our little virtual world The Savannah, but I think of it more like a Walk Across the World For a Cure. I accepted the fact that there is no magic pill or exercise DVD that is the answer to my weight loss woes, so I signed up, paid my entrance fee, and donned my number. I gave myself a new name.

Some days I'm a spectator, sometimes I'm in the game. But always, always, I carry my fellow walkers with me. I think of Mia blowing glass and Ellie dancing and Claire in her studio, painting. I imagine Stiney in her whites, her dexterity with a knife, a mandolin, all those wheels in her mind turning, turning. I envision little bags of carrotts and sandwiches of tofu salad and Maddy's picture of her x point brekkie that she savored in the moments before logging on to sell wine. There is such trust here. This doesn't happen in the real world. Perhaps virtual anonymity breeds an intimacy that is unique to the 21st century, and perhaps some degree of intimacy is required for us to stay on this road together. I mean, I really care about these people. They give me hope everyday.

And Beth Orton croons "an illusion is hope born from fear..."

Cosmic.