"Oh lord, I can't remember if it's September or July"
Sometimes the enormity of the country astounded her.
All the stories in every apartment window, in every car. "Each time 2 or more are gathered in my name", 2 or more are a church service. This human drama, worship of life. The miracle of conversation. Of friends and history, all the things you take for granted.
And music on the radio. Sometimes you forget and get stuck on your iPod. But then you turn the radio on. A new song by a favorite singer that you had never heard before. Bringing back such a specific flavor of air. That was the sound of 1972. All these moments, before and happening now.
Being on tour, you get a strange sense of detachment, almost pathological. Like a reporter in a war zone. In a war zone that is your home country.
How did all those people create a life?
What was she missing, sitting here watching the sunset? Taking an act around, frozen in concept, fun-cure, but static in its own way. Looking at him as he crashes on his friend's couch. An empty apartment in NYC. Other people's lives. They want to be on your stage, in your skin. And you want . . . what?
When will you feel as if you own your life? Is it a wedding ring? The signature on a mortgage? A PhD? A weekly paycheck?
There were too many days of wandering. She "lost the plot", according to the English saying. When you go crazy from not being able to remember who you are or what your goals are. But she wondered if she had ever had known.
Wherefore and the Why by Gordon Lightfoot
Sometimes the enormity of the country astounded her.
All the stories in every apartment window, in every car. "Each time 2 or more are gathered in my name", 2 or more are a church service. This human drama, worship of life. The miracle of conversation. Of friends and history, all the things you take for granted.
And music on the radio. Sometimes you forget and get stuck on your iPod. But then you turn the radio on. A new song by a favorite singer that you had never heard before. Bringing back such a specific flavor of air. That was the sound of 1972. All these moments, before and happening now.
Being on tour, you get a strange sense of detachment, almost pathological. Like a reporter in a war zone. In a war zone that is your home country.
How did all those people create a life?
What was she missing, sitting here watching the sunset? Taking an act around, frozen in concept, fun-cure, but static in its own way. Looking at him as he crashes on his friend's couch. An empty apartment in NYC. Other people's lives. They want to be on your stage, in your skin. And you want . . . what?
When will you feel as if you own your life? Is it a wedding ring? The signature on a mortgage? A PhD? A weekly paycheck?
There were too many days of wandering. She "lost the plot", according to the English saying. When you go crazy from not being able to remember who you are or what your goals are. But she wondered if she had ever had known.
Wherefore and the Why by Gordon Lightfoot
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