On Abigail

Abigail was not her real name, and the story is hardly important. I barely knew the girl, to be honest. I met Abigail at an acquaintances' barbecue. She reminded me of Diane Keaton at her loveliest, or maybe a slightly more jewish version of that. We spoke, but I hardly remember about what, maybe it was about wine, maybe it was about her. I remember the night closing in around the backyard, I remember the instant sense of longing, and the impossible tallness of her boyfriend.

Abigail was not her real name. None of my female-name-titled songs feature a real name, perhaps because of privacy considerations, but also maybe to lend some fiction that enables me to fudge the truth just so, just enough to make meaning out of the mundane. Sometimes one person will take on different names at different times; Colleen was at one point Coraline and Genevieve, and maybe the state of Carolina. At one point I thought I might make an album with only female names in the title.

Abigail was not her real name. When I ran into her again we spoke, smoked cigarettes and laughed. I was with an acquaintance who has a unexpected charm with women, something that he's honed for years, a tongue sharpened on the needs of the girls he captures, a face played for sympathy and mockery. He did the heavy lifting and I sat at the table, playing the "slightly more sane" card. When we left, the embrace from Abigail was sudden, and unexpectedly close.

Abigail was not her real name. My mind held on. Internets were stalked. Plots and plans were drawn up, friends were drawn into Roman councils of heart-stealing. Nothing ever came of it, of course. But working with Amit had enabled me to explore something so grotesque and childish. One day I instant messaged him "I'm going to write a song for Abigail." And the song came easily, and just as easily the obsession slipped gently away.

Oh, if I had you 
Oh, if I had you
A familiar battle-cry on dungeons and dragons night 
Of all the lonely boys
Who mark the minutes clicking through the slideshows of your life

Oh, if I had you
Oh, if I had you
But I can't overthrow the tyrant 
Who toasts each lonely whisky to your loveliness
Who lays across your days

And I'm sick to death of dreams, I'm sick to death of fantasies
I'd love to hold you close, I'd love to hold you next to me it's true
I ain't got much, I ain't got you.

Oh, if I had you 
Oh, if I had you 
I'd never need again to daydream of you waking 
Or invent all of the things you'd like to do on Saturday
I read them all on your Facebook anyway.