I dreamed about Billie Holiday. It was young Billie. It was thick Billie; signature cigarette in her hand. She was as ripe as her voice. Her face was full. Her demons had not yet won the war.
I did not understand. I was at home relaxing one minute, and on stage in a concert hall the next. I was struggling to sing her song as she watched with a patience and coolness I never imagined she possessed.
In the next moment, I was seated, watching her on stage singing. Her face and that voice flowing over me. Waves of silken sadness envelope me, and soon I am adrift. Surrounded by her bittersweet song, she is in me.
I awakened to the faint smell of cigarette smoke, gardenias and the last lonely notes of a piano solo.
Days later, I am still haunted by whiffs of gardenias and cigarette smoke, and still enveloped in that silken sadness. My voice has become silken sadness, my voice has become bittersweet. Call me Eleanora. Call me Billie.
I did not understand. I was at home relaxing one minute, and on stage in a concert hall the next. I was struggling to sing her song as she watched with a patience and coolness I never imagined she possessed.
In the next moment, I was seated, watching her on stage singing. Her face and that voice flowing over me. Waves of silken sadness envelope me, and soon I am adrift. Surrounded by her bittersweet song, she is in me.
I awakened to the faint smell of cigarette smoke, gardenias and the last lonely notes of a piano solo.
Days later, I am still haunted by whiffs of gardenias and cigarette smoke, and still enveloped in that silken sadness. My voice has become silken sadness, my voice has become bittersweet. Call me Eleanora. Call me Billie.
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