An Open Letter to Mr. Leonard Cohen

Dear Mr. Cohen,

As I was listening to some music on my iPod today at work, I came across your song ‘Take This Waltz.’ “Ah,” I thought, “I like that song.” I listened, and at the end of the song, hit Repeat. The second time through I sighed dreamily and hit Repeat. The third time through I sighed louder, stopped working, and almost hit Repeat again. “I cannot be distracted by listening to multiple songs, or by hitting Repeat for songs I particularly like,” I thought harshly, “I will just put ‘Take This Waltz’ on Shuffle One, so it plays that song over and over.”

Three hours later I was dissolved into a non-productive puddle. Mooning about the office. Sighing. Languishing. Pining. Longing. Longing hard, Mr. Cohen.

It was at that point I shook myself out of my damp slough of desire and decided to analyze why this song had me all limp. This is my way when I find myself pining. I can usually figure out what’s set me off into a longing mood. For example, I only needed an hour or so of CNN hurricane coverage before I realized it was not Anderson Cooper influencing me in that direction, but the repetition of the words “hammering” and “pounding” “driving” and “relentless.”

I listened to ‘Take this Waltz’ a few more times and focused on the lyrics. Usually I can understand the basic lyrics to a song on the first try, and the nuances after a few playings. But this song is ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ in three-quarter time. Except for “La la la” and of course, “my mouth on the dew of your thighs,” it’s all cryptic. For example, “And I’ll see what you’ve chained to your sorrow / All your sheep and your lilies of snow.” What the hell, Mr. Cohen. What the hell?

I’m at a loss for why this song makes me weak. There are serious ramifications if I can’t get to the bottom of this.
1) There are lives at stake. I cannot tell you due to the numerous high security confidentiality agreements I signed when I began this project. But people could die if I am not on my game at work.
2) My pride has been compromised. I called my husband this afternoon and thanked him for giving me yet another bladder infection. I believe I giggled, “You are such a MAN.” And, people were in the next cubicle.

Just so you know, you don’t carry the entire burden of blame.
Uncharged Fellow Co-Conspirators:
Robin and her uniquely guttural programming style, which is why I put the iPod on in the first place.
Tori Amos, Steven Page, Steve the salesman at work, the powers that be in Canada, and all the others who recommended your music, including the ultimate authority: the guy at the record store.
Steve Jobs and the minions who programmed the Shuffle One iPod setting.

Anyway, Mr. Cohen, you are now banned from my iPod during work hours. I’m sorry. You cannot imagine how much I will miss you. Sigh.