The holiday season slowly unfurls in this lovely piece entitled ‘Autumn Leaves’ by the brilliant Vince Guaraldi, who wrote the classic themes to the Peanuts holiday features. This selection is a lovely entry into the season, transitioning from autumn’s splendor into hints of the holidays to come. In our haste to hurry into all things Christmas, we sometimes forget that there’s a full month of autumn still to celebrated.
There are also moments of quiet beauty, as found in these rose hips, that shouldn’t be discounted in all the bombast and hoopla that is currently building – little bits of nature showing off when the world has written her off. Such gems are there to be found if one adjusts expectations.
While I will always love the blooms of a rose, and the fragrance that often accompanies them, I also appreciate the rose hips when they ripen into such glory. It’s a forgotten stage of the rose’s life-cycle, and as we move toward winter it’s wise to celebrate such simple joys. When the snow arrives there will be enough time to conjure and create the artificial means of getting through the winter. For now, I slow down to listen to the music of autumn, the wind and the rustle of the leaves…
Oh how I wish I understood these simple little things, instead of believing the far-fetched lies we tell ourselves, the yarns we spin endlessly, winding back on each other until the knots are impossible to untie. A different sort of unraveling happens then…
I wish I knew then that the finery you hang from your neck, the bracelet you slip onto your wrist, the rings on your fingers, and all the sartorial adornments you use to cover your gorgeously worn body have nothing to do with the power you have to sparkle. I also wish I knew then that it’s a power we all have. That would have made it easier to be kind.
Best believe I’m still bejeweled When I walk in the room I can still make the whole place shimmer…
Alas, such lessons are slow to be learned – but one must remember that the most rewarding wisdom comes from that which takes years to decipher. Instant gratification rarely yields lasting satisfaction. I had my eye on grander things, even if the fake gems and false jewels did their best to skew perception. Even if they were pretty enough to wear, even if they were pretty enough to fool the world.
Familiarity breeds contempt Don’t put me in the basement When I want the penthouse of your heart Diamonds in my eyes I polish up real, I polish up real nice
A jacket of pink velvet invites a brush with greatness.
Underneath it all the fragile beating of a heart, fluttering like a hummingbird and spending all the energy of a century in a single night, burns impossibly bright, summoning everything for this one evening.
We wage the battles, and we wage the wars, and it doesn’t matter if your armor is velvet and jewels – the wounds still wound, the hurt still hurts. But it’s nothing a flippant laugh won’t cure in an instant ~ the disarmament of a lifetime when you put your own torn cuff next to some real heartache and loss… and then you think, ‘Comparison is the thief of joy.‘
Sapphire tears on my face Sadness became my whole sky But some guy said my aura’s moonstone Just ’cause he was high And we’re dancin’ all night And you can try to change my mind But you might have to wait in line What’s a girl gonna do? A diamond’s gotta shine
Best believe I’m still bejeweled When I walk in the room I can still make the whole place shimmer (shimmer)
When the years have worn away the fuzzy film of superficial comforts, and all that remains is the sharply-faceted crystalline core of steely self-belief, there is, buried under all the dolled-up, dressed-up, fucked-up trappings, a different sort of shine, a more formidable sort of sparkle. It cuts across all insecurity and doubt, it lays flat all whispers of worry, and it poisons the very root of all unnecessary anguish. It is one of the secret gifts of age – the hidden golden underside of getting older.
Familiarity breeds contempt Don’t put me in the basement When I want the penthouse of your heart Diamonds in my eyes I polish up real (nice), I polish up real nice
This brave new world was here all along – how strange to think that so much of it has been mere perception, and to realize how easily it all falls so beautifully apart when the artifice is revealed. That makes the frivolity and fabulousness all the more fun. There is glory too in the fleeting and temporal – when one night is forever and never at once.
And we’re dancin’ all night And you can try to change my mind But you might have to wait in line What’s a girl gonna do? What’s a girl gonna do? I polish up nice Best believe I’m still bejeweled When I walk in the room I can still make the whole place shimmer.
While this post will not draw the cat-eye sharp enough to kill a man, the writer Michael Cunningham once remarked that writers are assassins, and I’ve always held that notion in my head when writing things out here. More harm can come from the unmitigated telling of truths than the judicious pruning and careful curating that certain sensitive artists might employ. For a messy personal blog like this one, largely unread on a mass, and even a private, scale, I don’t need to be as careful. This has mostly been for my own creative exorcisms than anything grander, and all the little in-joking between me, myself and I is an indulgent whim, one that sees me through the average autumn evening. Sometimes there’s a song that goes along with it, as in this new one from Taylor Swift’s latest ‘Midnights’ album – a rather marvelous collection of moody songs conjured from the midnight hour.
Summer went away, still the yearning stays I play it cool with the best of them I wait patiently, he’s gonna notice me It’s okay, we’re the best of friends Anyway
From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes I waited ages to see you there I searched the party of better bodies Just to learn that you never cared
You’re on your own, kid You always have been
Lately I’ve been feeling that a little more – not in an abandoned way, more in a philosophical sense, made in midnight moments of contemplation and analysis – things that have traditionally proved problematic, so much so that I if I was able to scrounge up any remaining wisdom I should put all of it from my mind. Whenever I would get lost in this sort of overthinking and overanalysis during those difficult college years, the only way out was to ignore it for a few days, to allow the mundane actions of daily living to take over the tumultuous meanderings of the mind. There may be something to embracing the willful ignorance of the benign, some magic in knowing not to disturb the muck of the heart.
From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this I hosted parties and starved my body Like I’d be saved by a perfect kiss The jokes weren’t funny, I took the money My friends from home don’t know what to say I looked around in a blood-soaked gown And I saw something they can’t take away ‘Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned Everything you lose is a step you take So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it You’ve got no reason to be afraid
Now and then it’s good to be reminded that we are all, sooner or later, on our own. For someone rather accustomed to solitude, it’s no more than a friendly reminder. For others, it’s more troublesome, and the more we rely on others, the more dangerous it can prove to be. Yet the most dangerous thing may be to read into things too much. Whenever I find myself losing the way, when it feels like the world is gas-lighting me, I pause and step back. From myself, from the world, from the people who have populated and haunted my past. Rarely does anything good come of it, and this feeling is one of ickiness, a feeling without resolution, a feeling that has no possibility of resolution, and because of that the point of being so icky does not exist. I wish it did. Without purpose, messiness is just messy. If I’m going to get my hands dirty, I want a garden to show for it.
You’re on your own, kid Yeah, you can face this You’re on your own, kid You always have been.
Created by Benjamin Franklin, the glass armonica was said to cause madness in certain listeners. I’ve always been entranced by the scientific magic at work here – the tones of a glass created by rubbing one’s wet finger around the rim – varying by size and amount of water in each glass. In Franklin’s version, he simply used different sizes of glass, stacking them beside each other to offer different notes. This ‘glass armonica’ created a spellbinding sound, and composers began writing for it, until stories circulated that the music made by the armonica was causing madness and melancholia.
Listen for yourself, but don’t blame me if you slip into another state…
Somewhere in memory I am swaying to this song, not quite in a solitary dance, and something more than a sorrowful trance. Alone in Boston, treading barefoot on the dim, not-quite-lit amber floorboards of my home-away-from-home, a memory within a memory forms as I recall the early days of living there by myself in the sparse unfurnished space, back before there was even a chair on which to sit. A single lamp glows warmly near the door, while the windows let in the peeping streetlights.
I was a quick wet boy Diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes Wide on my plastic toys
Then when the cops closed the fair I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog eared map And called for you everywhere
Somewhere, lost in the realm of that hazy land where deleted blog posts go, there is another piece written for this song, something I wrote many years ago while searching and seeking and never finding some other flightless bird. The warm hues of that Boston night fade and dissolve into gray, growing colder and distant, as my gentle swaying slows, so much that the rising and falling of my chest is the only movement in the place. This song plays on the little stereo, filling the air with its melancholy melody.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, jealous, weeping Or lost you? American mouth Big bill looming
It is November again, like it was November before, like the memory of this song carries from one November into another, and then repeating, another year, another song, and still the same melody, sad and strange and sweet, and the same swaying, dance-like trance, still held by the spell, still held under the water. Wet as a boy in the rain, uncaring and laughing through his tears.
Now I’m a fat house cat Cursing my sore blunt tongue Watching the warm poison rats Curl through the wide fence cracks
Pissing on magazine photos Those fishing lures thrown in the cold and clean Blood of Christ mountain stream
I remember a night not far from November, when I had just started living at the condo, when it got dark so early and no one was quite used to it, in those dismal first afternoons after we turned the clocks back. There were dry, brown leaves beneath my feet as I neared Braddock Park – they made the only sound on such a still windless night, and there was just the one pair of feet shuffling along. As I approached the row of brownstones, I looked up at the windows that belonged to me. Dark and empty, they kept their eyes sadly closed, not bothering to blink or wink a greeting from some beloved or loving person within, and suddenly I froze mid-step. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t face walking into the place alone, and that little survival mechanism that has always kicked in during the free-fall into despair signaled to me to back away from there, somehow knowing that if I entered at that particular time of vulnerability I might not survive. And so I listened, turning around and heading back to Copley Square, back to people and light and warmth. Even if they were strangers, it would be better than being completely alone. And after an hour or so, the impossibility of it – the impossibility of being lonely – faded and fell away, and I returned, unbothered by the darkness and emptiness, once again ok with all of it.
Have I found you? Flightless bird, brown hair bleeding Or lost you? American mouth Big bill, stuck going down
Friday nights ring differently when you’re 47 years old. Gone are the days of excitement over television shows, or staying up past 9 PM. Today I want for no television, and going to bed at 9 pm would be a luxury I’m rarely afforded. Instead, I sit at the desk in the attic, light a few candles, and write out these words while seeking out music that will calm and quell the worrisome heart. This song starts out with promise, but it builds into something more powerful and driving, and I’m not sure it’s what I want or need. Still, a peaceful beginning counts for something, and on a day like this maybe it’s the only peace we’ll get.
There is serenity in the attic, and now that the outside has slowly but decidedly turned slightly more inhospitable than it was in the summer months, focus returns to this calming space of our home. Here it will remain light and bright no matter how dark the winter may get.
It’s barely past 6 pm as I write this and already it’s dark out. This will only come earlier after the clocks go back. An extra hour is always appreciated, but the return to so much darkness is not as welcome. That’s when the brightness of the attic becomes integral to mental health and emotional uplift. Last winter was made bearable, if not enjoyable, by embracing and cultivating the notion of hygge in this very space, and we will light candles and hunker down in coziness to bring comfort and warmth again.
If there’s a song that personifies what my website has been doing for almost an entire double-decade, this may be the one. Courtesy of the adorable Meghan Trainor (who doesn’t get enough credit for her song-crafting skills) give a listen to ‘Made You Look’ which is all about the bait-and-switch of the superficial versus the substance, and that battle has been gloriously waging here since we first went up way back in 2003.
I could have my Gucci on
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
Given that timeframe, this blog has been doing its thing since before Instagram, Twitter or FaceBook even existed. Those social media outlets took the work by storm, and I use my accounts mainly to drive visitors here, to these blog posts, and the daily writing and photographic rituals that have been cathartic artistic outlets. How to get noticed in an increasingly-fractured and splintered world, where content turns over within seconds, and the average lifespan of a website is under three years. The lifespan of a personal blog is probably much lower. Simply being here, almost twenty years now, is a feat in and of itself, and the recipe for my success is simply making this a labor of love and creative expression. That said, it’s always more fun when guests visit, and to make that happen I’ve employed a simple thirst-bait-and-switch formula, where provocative images draw the viewers in, and then the words, ideally, get them to stay for a bit.
I’ll make you double take
Soon as I walk away
Call up your chiropractor
Just in case your neck break
Ooh, tell me what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
‘Cause I’m ’bout to make a scene
Double up that sunscreen
I’m ’bout to turn the heat up
Gonna make your glasses steam
Ooh, tell me what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
Sadly, I realize that ideal scenario is preciously rare; it’s a losing game trying to convince even my closest friends to stop by these parts. That used to bother me, before I understood how it drove my pathology and inspired me to create things that were worth reading, that would get even those weary and worn down by my antics to take a moment and check in. That was also the sort of guy for whom I fell, over and over: the one who wanted nothing to do with me. When the people who matter most to you don’t seem to notice anything you do, you learn to thrill the world, or you give up on it. For all my jaded cynicism, I haven’t given up on anything.
When I do my walk, walk
I can guarantee your jaw will drop, drop
‘Cause they don’t make a lot of what I got, got
Ladies if you feel me, this your bop, bop
(Bop bop, bop)
I could have my Gucci on (Gucci on)
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
Yeah, I look good in my Versace dress (take it off)
But I’m hotter when my morning hair’s a mess
But even with my hoodie on
Bet, I made you look (I made you look)
And once you get a taste (woo)
You’ll never be the same
This ain’t that ordinary
It’s that fourteen karat cake
Ooh, tell me, what ya, what ya, what you gon’ do? Ooh
When I do my walk, walk
I can guarantee your jaw will drop, drop
‘Cause they don’t make a lot of what I got, got
Ladies if you feel me, this your bop, bop
(Bop bop, bop) ohh
This little bop reminds me of a simpler time, back when the internet was a safer, softer, sillier place. It gives off a sense of superficial glam, only to reveal something sweeter and slightly more substantial – the hat trick of what has kept this blog going. A bit of a tease, a bit of a please, and a bit of the bee’s knees. Nothing too serious, unless you look beneath the surface. Most won’t bother making it this far, but for those who do, and those who continue to return, I’ll do my best to make it worth your while. If I happen to fail, which will sometimes occur, then I will play this song and try to remember the fun in life, the frivolity, and all the foolishness that once made the world go round.
I could have my Gucci on (Gucci on)
I could wear my Louis Vuitton
But even with nothin’ on
Bet, I made you look (said, I made you look)
Yeah, I look good in my Versace dress (take it off, baby)
But I’m hotter when my morning hair’s a mess
But even with my hoodie on
Bet, I made you look (said, I made you look)
Following last year’s creamy-smooth hook-heavy aural confection of ‘Home for Halloween’, Dr. Joseph Abramo and I decided to go a little more raw and experimental for this year’s Halloween song. Entitled ‘Mr. Halloween Man‘ I wrote out the lyrics in the middle of a single night, taking into account where Joe and I were finding ourselves in the middle of our 40’s, which some say is the start of the most dangerous years of a man’s life. I left the rest of the musical magic (and the bulk of the work) to him. We’d never crafted a Halloween song in such a distant and disconnected format – usually we are collaborating in person to make sure the cadence of words flows with the music – but both of us were interested in how this would go, and the end result is a trip.
He walks down the street unaware of the stares
A top hat he swings, the cape that he wears
He doesn’t succumb to the light of day
He doesn’t get down by the words they say
He sings his own song, the devil may care
Pretends it doesn’t matter, it makes its own wear
There’s the pitch and the howl of the great theremin
Filled with fire and noise, filled up with flare and din
Mister Halloween Man,
Hollowing man
Mister Halloween Man
Hollowing man…
Across jittery beats of tense and unresolved progression, the song moves in jagged and jilted fashion, unsure of where and when to stop, unsure how to navigate such new and chilly waters. It’s the perfect metaphor for the shifting sense of time perception, and what might come of the second half of our lives ~ ambivalence cloaked in some sick beats. Joe took the raw lyrics and refined them to fit in with his own vision, which is exactly what I hoped would happen, picking up where I left off, and incorporating his own mid-life experience into the song.
A half-life of rage, a half-life of porridge
A heart overflowing and empty of storage
All regret at the point of no turning back
He takes one step ahead, a click and a clack
Mister Halloween Man,
Hollowing man
Mister Halloween Man
Hollowing man…
The words and sentiment were partly informed by this powerful quote by Colin Harrison – no stranger to conveying the crisis of the mid-life of a man: “Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him -the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream.”
The original lyrics are as follows, so you’ll have to listen closely to Joe’s interpretation to hear his slant on it (which is, admittedly, better suited to the music and flow of the song).
It’s the pills that we take just to keep us from flight
It’s the carving out of parts we’re not ready to lose
It’s when we face that there might not be a choice left to choose
It’s the rolling of time when we just want to be still
It’s the hill that we climb when what is left is the chill…
Of the hollowing man.
Mister Halloween Man
Oh the hollowing man
Mister Halloween Man
Halloween is supposed to be scary, but it’s a cakewalk compared to getting older and confronting where we find ourselves midway through life. Such a crux is often rife with conflict, internal and external, and finding the way through while making sensible and noble choices doesn’t get easier. There is also the terrifying recognition that our decisions now may not be easily reversed or rewound, the way such decisions might have been forgivable or forgettable in our youth. We don’t have as much time to turn it all around. That adds to the tension and worry at hand, giving an underlying darkness to this spooky time of the year. It’s all there in the music, especially the melancholic ending that ultimately resolves itself in a contemplative moment of beauty and grace.
The age when it matters is the age when it won’t,
A life of can and do switched to can’t and don’t
He’s not what he was, just a hollowed out shell
He’s not what he is, but he never will tell
He’s Mister Halloween Man
He’s the hollowing man
He’s Mister Halloween Man
Just a hollowed out man.
Good morning gorgeous indeed! Surviving on top of the entertainment world for decades is a matter of superhuman accomplishment – to end up thriving on top of it is the stuff of goddesses. Enter Mary J. Blige, who easily earns this Dazzler of the Day honor for a career of fabulous, defiant, empowering work. She’s been a pop culture pillar since the early 90’s, and is currently on her ‘Good Morning Gorgeous’ tour in support of her latest album of the same name. A gorgeous work in the gorgeous career of a gorgeous woman. Check out her website here for upcoming tour dates.
Canadian composer and performer Zoë Keating has pushed the possibilities of the sounds a string instrument can make, and the kind of musical masterpieces that can be produced with a wondrous alchemy of classical instrumentation and cutting-edge technological techniques. Visit her marvelous website here, and make special note of some upcoming performances scheduled for November. Her magical musical prowess earns her this Dazzler of the Day honor. (Bonus points for fearless hair magnificence.)
While my favorite books remain ‘The God in Flight’ by Laura Argiri and ‘The Great Gatsby‘ by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the inspirational work that has most informed my creative output in projects and how I present my artistic work to the world is easily Madonna’s infamous ‘Sex’ tome. Flashy and trashy, cheeky and freaky, low-brow and big-wow – ‘Sex’ was salacious, sultry, seductive, silly, and scintillating in all the best ways.
The promotional roll-out was christened by a topless runway walk at a Jean Paul Gautier fashion show by the Mistress of Ceremonies herself, and as Madonna as Dita smiled a golden-tooth-accented smile she sent the entire world into salivating anticipation for a book. That the woman who had made the art of the music video into a vaunted exercise in cinematic glory would put forth a book of sexual fantasies was a novel idea in many ways, starting with its metallic covers and spiral binding, and ending with its ridiculous comic book coda. In-between the aluminum was Madonna in all states of undress and erotic scenarios. As she had done for all her career, she was playing a part, or a series of roles, in an artistic expression on a theme – that the theme was sex heightened the allure and controversy, and the way she executed this mass-seduction of the world’s attention was a master-class in provocation to get one’s point across. As we moved into the digital age, it would become increasingly difficult to make such an imprint and impression on such a grand scale, but the lesson had already been learned.
Accompanying the ‘Sex’ book was the ‘Erotica’ album – and while ‘Sex’ may have brought about all the bombast, it was ‘Erotica’ that made the sounds that mattered. A work of edgy brilliance that remains a provocative slice of 90’s vibes, the album was strangely maligned by some, and recognized by others as the genius stroke of art-pop that it was. In anticipation of tomorrow’s 30th anniversary of this extraordinary period in Madonna’s legendary career, and a blog post that is slightly more somber and serious than the topic at hand might otherwise demand, here’s the track-listing of the ‘Erotica’ album and the Madonna Timeline entries that have been written thus far.
I’ve been a not-so-secret Meghan Trainor fan for years. She’s got a new album coming out the same day as Taylor Swift, and Trainor has never been one to shy away from a challenge. When her songs are this catchy and fun there’s enough room for more than one musical impresaria in our midst. Trainor has been delighting fans for her entire career with an uncanny knack at crafting pop songs that feel both warmly nostalgic and surprisingly prescient. When there’s a message and meaning behind the music, that makes it all the more glorious. Her latest single, ‘Don’t I Make It Look Easy’ warns of the dangers of social media, but does so in such a sweet and aurally-pleasing manner that it does indeed go down easy. Currently I’m all about the next single about to drop, ‘Made You Look’ which is all the rage on Tik Tok. For making us all look, and listen, she easily earns this Dazzler of the Day. (Be sure to watch for ‘Takin’ It Back’, her new album out October 21.)
This fall season on the blog has been fueled by fire and memories and some redemptive rage. It’s featured the long-lost ‘FireWater’ project, a first and last letter to the first man who ever kissed me, these flaming feathers of fabulousness, and a fiery start that set the tone for what was, and still is, to come. These posts alone would have drained anyone, but I’m old hat at writing about experiences as a way of exorcising them, and this is more cathartic than any sort of therapy. So we shall continue on our flame-addled way, but not without a momentary respite, a pause in the hectic proceedings.
…You got to soldier on, you know you can’t quit until it’s won…
Way back several years and several seasons ago, this song formed the impetus for a blog post on touring and traveling. It was all excitement and anticipatory delight – all bright lights and big city 80’s excess. It was, in many ways, an embodiment of my youth and childhood. A time of innocence and hope and happiness – the way everyone’s childhood should be.
…You broke the boy in me but you won’t break the man…
Many years have passed since the first iteration of the song and my subsequent memories of it – years that proved I was no longer a boy. The man in motion I’d longed to become had begun to slow down. I’m 47 years old. Some days I feel every one of those years; some days I still feel like I’m twelve. Most days I feel a little more certain, and still a little bit lost.
Listening to this acoustic version, by the original artist who sang it over those 80’s synths and manufactured beats, fills me with a strange sense of satisfaction, tinged with just the slightest bit of sadness at the way time has moved all of us along. With age does come a certain wisdom – mostly that wisdom is in the form of understanding how little I know, how much more there is to learn, how the search for perfection is a useless and futile quest. Inherent in such wisdom is a certain calm. The restlessness I once felt has subsided, the fire put out by experiencing quite a bit of life – sometimes too much – and the thirst for more has been quenched by the realization that there will always be more. No one can do it all. There is simply too much – too many places, too many people, too many options and opportunities.
In this age of immediate internet reach and instantaneous connection, the greatest rebellion is in slowing down and shutting it all off. Making the choice to disconnect and engage only when it truly matters, making experiences that count, making decisions that don’t consist mostly of going through the motions. These are the choices and edits that refine our new world, and how we choose to walk through it. For far too many years I was a man in motion, rushing to get through to the next event, the next experience, the next new thing. It was what I needed to do to make it through. Stopping was not an option. Stopping could very well have killed me, especially if it happened at the wrong time. Seeing the folly of that hectic pace has been one of the more difficult lessons, and one of the most rewarding.
And so we slow things down with this song, pausing to watch the leaves fall, pausing to reflect and enjoy, pausing to take a few deep breaths before we soldier on…
Do you always trust your first initial feeling Special knowledge holds truth bears believing I turned aroundand the water was closing all around Like a glove Like the love that had finally, finally found me Then I knewin the crystalline knowledge of you Drove me through the mountains Through the crystal-like clear water fountain Drove me like a magnetto the sea
Sky mottled like a painter’s canvass, land and mountains undulating like the holding pattern of an ocean, the world around me signals fall as much as it signals forever. Carrying its secrets and mysteries, questions and non-answers, it is the foggy obfuscation of autumn that conceals and merely hints at its possibilities. If you’re looking for the key to life, it won’t be found amid such veiled beauty. I don’t even know if that key exists. Seems folly to have forged such a thing if no one can use it or share it. But that’s what humans do I suppose.
How the faces of love have changed turning the pages And I have changed oh, but you, you remain ageless I turned around and the water was closing all around Like a glove, Like the love that had finally, finally found me Then I knew in the crystalline knowledge of you Drove me through the mountains Through the crystal-like clear water fountain Drove me like a magnet to the sea, To the sea…
Why should fall posit these questions, this wonderment? And why should we bother with such wondering? Slumber awaits us all – the slumber of winter, the rest that the garden requires. We demand such a show from it from spring to summer – it deserves this reprieve.
Meanwhile, the world runs wild around us, in the water of the sea – but that recent journey is yet to be posted. Not to worry, it’s on the way…
I turned around and the water was closing around me I turned around and the water was closing around me Sea The sea I turned around and the water was closing around me Around me like a glove, around me Around me, oh, around me I turned around and the water was closing around me
