About Rickie Lee Jones
Fish Sticks
A journal of my far away heart…
For many of us the language ‘childhood’ is an alphabet of singular memories and the humming of ever singing voices. The songs of the highway, the truck going by. The world was quieter then, I could hear far away whine of engines approaching… A future warning, I am coming. And then…The Doppler of the trucks as time went by.
When the day is too long or the night is too empty, I remember the way it felt to have a mother. I felt safe—no, I felt whole when I was sure she was listening to me.