Late night, white wine and trying to learn a Greg Brown song on the guitar...

Well, I don't want to go to sleep. This almost never happens--I mean really, getting to bed with a book and my cat is my favorite moment of the whole day, and usually happens around eleven, except for pub night on Sunday. (I know, I'm twenty-five and already old.) But tonight, I don't know, I'm almost afraid of pulling down the ladder to my sleeping loft (btw it is as cool as it sounds,) so instead I've poured myself some wine and am doing unspeakable things to my guitar--though I am quite pleased with how quickly I grasped the essence of Asus4 and D7sus2. Now all I've left to do is make them sound like a song. Ask me at three am after the next glass of wine how that's going.
I figure this sort of moment is exactly what a blog is for. I can ramble on and pretend there is an audience for this, but can always edit in the morning if I get that what-did-I-say-last-night feeling. And just so you know I am that sort of I-love-you-guys drunk. But I'm not drunk... yet. (Sip.)
The song I am trying to learn is Ella Mae by Greg Brown. I came across a tribute CD called Going Driftless, checking in CD's at the library where I work. It boasts such rockin' chicks as Lucinda and Ani and Gillian so I took it home and pretty much haven't stopped listening and, to be quite frank, haven't stopped crying. Ella Mae was Greg's grandma, and the song is sang by his three daughters, and it's full of references to redwing blackbirds, and it's just devastatingly beautiful. And it's been making me blubber helplessly (along with Sleeper, which I'm also learning, though it's G-Em-C-D so the road isn't as steep.)
So, what I should be getting at is: why all the crying, right? I wish I could tell you. Could it be as silly as not being able to say 'I love you' to those people I want to say it to--my grandpa who died, for example--and that the discreptancy between the beauty of the song and my utter inability to play it lights up the distance between my love and my inability to utter it? Why does it feel like playing this one song, not even well, but just decently, would somehow cover over a multitude of sins? Maybe (sip) I feel that loving, like playing, is a skill I can admire in others, but for myself can only hope to produce pathetic twang.

This is the sort of thing that happens when a girl who thinks too much stays up past her bedtime, drinking. I know what you're thinking--Less Talk More Rock. Just play the damn guitar, girl. Maybe Less Wine More Sleep would be a better formula. Anyway, if it's morning and you're reading this, it means I've woken up okay and was given enough grace to laugh at myself. And don't let my present incapacity to cope with HTML and provide you with a link prevent you from seeking out the song. You know how to use Google--it's Ella Mae, by Greg Brown.
Good night.