I love the 1966 song ‘Carey’ by Joni Mitchell. The lyrics and carefree music are the coordinates, transporting me to a very specific place: Matala, Crete.
It makes me jealous, that’s what. I want to take an ill-afforded vacation to fill my lungs with air ionized by lapping waves. I want sand to invade my sandals as I walk under a low-hanging moon. I’d like my man to be there, too, once he’s chosen the appropriate cane, of course.
I want to dance to a scratchy record player amid a crowd made seedy by sloth and greed. These people never stop calling for a last bottle of wine. They’re crazy for pleasure, tipsiness, sunburn and saltwater–lives not aligned with God but with Dionysian. People like Joni and Carey stay two months later than they’re supposed to in a tourist town itching to close down.
Rumor has it, neighbors and potential employers will whisper years later, “this lady once took up a three-month residence in a two-mile town.” Who can resent, though, the lovely Joni Mitchell?
She’s always making word pictures: “The sky is a starry dome.” She’s always exploring alternate tunings, matching all-comers pick-for-pick, lick-for-lick. I’m told her crisscrossing concerts and Gypsy travels traced new ley lines in North America and beyond.
–Sarah Torribio
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