C'est la vie.

In the aftermath of the party, the guests are gone, the kids are asleep, the missus has gone upstairs to try to get the baby back down and I’m drinking up the last of the wine, throwing a few dishes at the sink and listening to the butt end of the music mix that was designed to get us from point a to point b.  I figure, from the quiet, that the little one has succumbed and, likely, the missus right behind him. 

What is this cd?  An old Sarah Vaughn thing that maybe isn’t my favorite disc in the world, or even my favorite Sarah Vaughn disc in the world, but just something that, at a party, when you play it, nobody kicks too hard and some people maybe even think, "Huh, Sarah Vaughn, well, ok."

Once upon a time I chose the music with a sharp eye toward what might get me laid.  I used the speakers to try to say the stuff I couldn’t figure out how to say with my mouth in hopes of getting something that seemed like what I needed more than anything in the world.  Those were wonderful times and I don’t miss them one bit.

Tonight, the door had hardly closed on our last, lovely guest when I heard Sarah say, and I quote, “It’s a funny thing, when it comes to love.  You don’t always conquer the one you’re dreaming of.” 

True, Sarah.  So true.  And a young man’s life is dedicated to that principle. But what about when the one you’re dreaming of is upstairs, asleep in your bed.  What about when the soul you have searched for is safely tucked in on the second floor?  Who prepared for this?  Not I.  I was ready to write poetry in a lonely garrett, my words a poor salve to the wounds that marked me from head to toe.  I was prepared to search and search.  I never gave a thought to what I would do if I found what I was looking for. 

Midway through life’s journey, I find myself in a pathless wood.  Pathless?  Only in that there is no way out.  But take a second.  Do you feel that?  It can’t be explained except to say that I don’t want out.  I want in. 

Well, that's a simple, stupid trick of language.  The kind of thing that would’ve earned my scorn when I was young.  Thank god I am not young.

Above me, four hearts beat their beats.  Four sets of lungs fill and empty.  Oxygen to the blood, blood to the limbs.  Four brains bubble and tick.  Dreams fly in and out.  Three boys and this wonderful woman.  Nothing to you, everything to me.

Comments

[jj]

Sweeet!

[Matt Cooper]

I still read your blog because IT ROCKS!

[Stefan G. Bucher]

You and Sarah Vaughn's lyricist: wise people.