“Unforgiven” by Beck, Four Vignettes

Beck‘s latest album, Morning Phase, is a wonderful album that I immediately fell in love with when I listened to it for the first time this past weekend.  It’s been on repeat since then.  One song in particular, “Unforgiven”, inspired the following four scenarios when I listened to it today.  Love how music can make me see, feel.

* * *

A teenager was asked to slow dance by her 10th grade crush.  Led to the dimly lit dance floor through a crowd of kinetic classmates, students.  The gym, illuminated only by a massive mirrored disco ball overhead and two green Exit signs.  Impatient, scared for the impending frontal body lock that will happen the moment he finds the best spot on the dance floor.  Earth, Wind, & Fire on the record player.  Black, red crepe paper strewn on the polished hardwood where she played basketball several hours ago.  Hands free to explore thanks to what the low light afforded.  Distance from chaperones – bonus points.

* * *

A young woman in a gray colored dress.  Decided at the last moment to not board the Underground, left standing alone on the yellow textured platform, head bowed.  The train headed towards the tunnel, caused her Monet watercolor chiffon scarf to undulate.  It tickled her arm where he once did, under wraps, over there, all aboard.

* * *

A middle-aged woman curled up in an overstuffed plush chair in a cabin, fleece throw covered her lap.  Remnants of mint tea leaves on the bottom of a glass mug that sat on top of a paperback on her oak side table.  The clock announced a new day.  Dying embers glowed inside the fireplace; small bits cascaded from the andiron to the slate below.  Through the bay window, an army of white fell from the sky, ready to take over the forest and her log cabin bubble she considered sanctuary from her city life.  The snow was deafening.

* * *

An old woman, the last one in the pew, the last one in the church, wrapped in his scarf.  His scent mixed with spicy cologne reminded her of their last trip abroad.  Ultimate sleep, no longer will wake, arms dutifully at his side as he laid in a box of polished wood.  Bouquets of flowers blanketed him.  Memories of we, us, slowly slipped through her, dripped onto the marble floor.


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