The warm reverb of Portishead’s Roads kicked in. I sank deep in my seat, closed my eyes and thought about how there’s nothing like the way the summer night air feels on your skin after a downpour. It hit me that it’s been almost 20 years since this song came out. I wasn’t old enough to know what good music was yet, wasn’t old enough to know about a lot of things — I guess I still feel that way.
I liked the way the intermittent crescendo of passing traffic combined with the fuzzy bass lines of one of music’s greatest anthems. I watched the last remnants of the evening’s rainfall slide down the windshield and into the oblivion. I could have drifted off right there and then, but I’ve always had this compulsive fascination with thinking about the little things — not to mention sleeping in a car is a great way to make sure you have a terrible morning after.
I thought about how it’s always been the little things that moves me. I’ve never been much for the big picture — too impersonal, too far away, too hard to touch. I’ve always preferred the intimacy of the moment. I love the way it rests just deep enough in your skin that you can’t shake it off. I love and hate the chaos of not exactly knowing what follows. Mostly it’s because I’ve always felt that the big picture rarely changes. But the moments, man… they never remain the same.
And I guess people are like moments too. They don’t repeat. They are just as transient and impermanent and can hit you like a sack of bricks when you least expect it, and the really special ones can crawl so deep under your skin that you know you’ll be carrying a small piece of them with you wherever you go. And once in a while, you meet one who’ll do the same for you. And I guess that’s the moment when the big picture changes.