Sunday, October 04, 2015

I saw you

I saw you
When you were not looking
Searching my eyes
As I have so often searched in yours.

Empty gazes
Sad and lost
In the fading light
Of our last goodbye.

Times remembered
Endless affection
Now your touch
Forever gone.

Two memories
Ablaze in sorrow
Two hearts
Invincible no more.

I saw you
When you were not looking
Leaving me
As love fell from view.




Wednesday, July 01, 2015

The Unbelievable Serendipity Of Love

I wish I had spent more time living than writing. More time happy, than sad. More time touching than looking, more time dancing than sitting, more time playing than sleeping, and more time in love, than out of love. The unbelievable serendipity of love, so easy to miss, so costly to lose.

Time leads, and then follows, it is relentless. They stream in and out of my sleep, breathing first with me, then against me. The faces, the names, the stories never change. The beginnings, the middles, the ends, never change. Paths cross, mingle, hold together, then break apart.

Reflections of the past, and every nuanced moment in love. In a distant forgotten time, lays an intimate beautiful life. I am holding her soft and perfect hand. My eyes open and there is a waterfall, the spectacle of water cascading, letting go, and then finding its way. It flows on melancholy, unbroken and determined, chasing sirens into the sea.

The unbelievable serendipity of love; so easy to miss, so costly to lose.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Tangled Up In Dylan

On April 12, 2015, sitting in the Altria Theatre in Richmond, Virgina, my two daughters on either side of me, I watched the greatest voice of a generation for what will most likely be the last time. Almost exactly 40 years ago, in the Beacon Theatre in Boston, I was seven rows from Bob Dylan, watching him for the first time. In-between those two concerts, he and I have lived most of our lifetimes.

Nothing stays the same, it's part of the price of admission to this thing called life. At 73, Dylan comes off as an aged shadow of his former self. At 65, I sit in wonder and respect for a man whose love of his craft has outlived his voice and energy as a performer. Would I pay $77 to sit in the same room as this man for two hours? You bet I would. He can hum and I would be just in awe. (On some of his songs, he should have hummed.)

I have two epiphanies about Dylan and his body of work. First, one of his most popular hits," Mr. Tamborine Man," is a beautiful song about death. As a young man in his early 20's Dylan contemplates his own mortality in a way that only he and I understand. A bond between two strangers, although it's inconceivable that this man could be a stranger in light of how well he understands my heart, and has touched my soul.

The second epiphany is that Tangled Up In Blue is a love song, not about two lovers, but about all of the loves of our life, every damn one of them described by every word and image in the song. It is from this perspective, as you listen to the song over and over again, that a recognition takes hold: Tangled Up In Blue is the preeminent love song of our (children of the 60's) generation.

As a testament to his age, his fatigue, the weariness of Dylan's never ending tour, he is a stanza into Tangled Up In Blue before the audience of 4,000 even realizes that he is singing it. The reaction, and the realization of just how powerful this song is to those of us who have lived that life, one of love, regret and of longing, is that Dylan gets a standing ovation mid-song. Even he had to understand for that one moment just how powerful a poet, folksinger, and in way, mentor that he has been to us.

Songs impact us in different ways, and just as we live our lives along our own imperfect paths, not all songs effect us in the same way. Mr. Tamborine Man and Tangled Up in Blue are just nice songs to some, incoherent rhymes to others, or piercing revelations of love and death to others. It is in this latter circle of aging hippies that I belong and the epiphany of it all is that he wrote these two masterpieces from deep inside of me. How he got there is the story of his greatness.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

The Gelato Wars

I brought home a container of Italian gelato last weekend, a very unusual purchase for me. I don't do well with temptation, but if it matters at all I bought it at Whole Foods, so its healthy, right? The first time was exquisite. Something called Salt Caramel Swirl that based on the orgasm, is the new porn.

The problem arose later that night. I was tucked in, had shut off the TV, was looking for some music on my iPhone for a little un-stimulation into sleep, when Ms. Salt Caramel Swirl came calling. I like exotic forms of sugar as much as the next guy, and just because of that I purposely do not bring them home for consumption. Yet there she was, sweet caramel gelato, creamy silk vanilla, so touchable and with arrogant blonde and caramel streaks, so alone in the cold, calling me out. I unleashed the hounds.

[Here's a tip: Do not walk out of the kitchen with a spoon and an open container of Salt Caramel Gelato. You will return in a sugar rush from a time-warp, carrying only a very polished spoon.]

About a month after my last scorched relationship, I finally found some quiet, that rare and elusive state called tranquility. It had been five hideous years of an alternating current between passion and torment. Torment finally won out, having massacred all in its wake. Left alone in the corner was one life standing, the one that used to be me.

A month passed, then another, then maybe a few more. One single date seemed harmless, just like that impulsive purchase of gelato at Whole Foods; sweet, good for my mind, my balance, mix things up, keep some skin in the game. Only I forgot about that intoxicating spell cast by the sirens allure; lovely, soft gentle touches, soothing, melodious whispers on a pillow next to mine. I hear them now, out far in the distance so sweetly singing, while I sit here enchanted, just me and my spoon.

The gelato wars. So it begins.