He had always believed in not crying during a performance. Overacting, cheap tricks. It comes off as insincere, no matter what.
But there was one night, after a long fight, after losing their love and regaining it again. They were onstage, and she sang an old standard. He brought it in for the Beatles reference. (He had mixed it up with "Till there was you", "I never sawr them ringing") Something about not knowing. It's all the same isn't it?
So she sang it.
And that night, she heard it completely sincerely. Realizing how wondrous the lyrics were, and she felt everything just at that second. He wondered if he should stop her, when he saw her trembling. But his first instinct was to look at the audience. They were rapt. Enraptured in her.
He began to cry as well. At her basic sincerity. At the idea that it was HIS love she was singing about. At the idea that he could change someone so fundamentally with the GOOD part of himself. And of course, how she had influenced him. How she had sculpted him into a beautiful version of himself.
She taught him how to be generous. Not the jealous love of his former blond skinny girlfriends, who would resent him talking to anyone (no matter if they were the prettiest in the room, they always had the biggest insecurities over their looks. As they aged, revenge did not turn sweet. Only bitter, as they were bewildered by the lack of attention)
She made him feel like everyone around them was in love too. The band, the audience, strangers they'd meet in their travels. Even when she wanted to keep him to herself, she'd let him go. He always wanted to come back to her, to be in her presence. Even more than music, her aura was the one tangible thing to him. The one clear magnet in his life.
The sheer randomness of love and luck, and how inevitable it all was.
And how scary it was to imagine a life without her. And how tenuous it was, even at that very moment. How every moment seemed to be touch and go. Or touch and stay. How likely it was that she'd walk out on him any second, so he needed to walk first.
She looked at him, to hand the solo over to him. And their eyes met, and he turned away immediately. Tears falling on his guitar. Damn, he couldn't take it. But he told her in the solo. "You are the single best thing that's ever happened to me, onstage or off. With you, I've hit the lottery."
Driving home that night, she wasn't sure if she knew what time it was yet. And that it was getting very late, too late to figure it out. More of her life was spent in that hovering place, just about to figure things out. Maybe. Maybe it was right next to her. Maybe it was still out there for her.
How amazing to be sitting next to a man who plays like that. To sing to him and to the audiences; to be in just the right magic time and space to make that kind of music. It didn't matter who heard. Even she didn't hear what she was singing. And so took it for granted. And was distracted by all the gear, setup and breakdown and getting lost in the wilds of New Jersey.
Life was no prize.
Still.
Nancy Lamott-I Didn't Know What Time It Was
But there was one night, after a long fight, after losing their love and regaining it again. They were onstage, and she sang an old standard. He brought it in for the Beatles reference. (He had mixed it up with "Till there was you", "I never sawr them ringing") Something about not knowing. It's all the same isn't it?
So she sang it.
And that night, she heard it completely sincerely. Realizing how wondrous the lyrics were, and she felt everything just at that second. He wondered if he should stop her, when he saw her trembling. But his first instinct was to look at the audience. They were rapt. Enraptured in her.
He began to cry as well. At her basic sincerity. At the idea that it was HIS love she was singing about. At the idea that he could change someone so fundamentally with the GOOD part of himself. And of course, how she had influenced him. How she had sculpted him into a beautiful version of himself.
She taught him how to be generous. Not the jealous love of his former blond skinny girlfriends, who would resent him talking to anyone (no matter if they were the prettiest in the room, they always had the biggest insecurities over their looks. As they aged, revenge did not turn sweet. Only bitter, as they were bewildered by the lack of attention)
She made him feel like everyone around them was in love too. The band, the audience, strangers they'd meet in their travels. Even when she wanted to keep him to herself, she'd let him go. He always wanted to come back to her, to be in her presence. Even more than music, her aura was the one tangible thing to him. The one clear magnet in his life.
The sheer randomness of love and luck, and how inevitable it all was.
And how scary it was to imagine a life without her. And how tenuous it was, even at that very moment. How every moment seemed to be touch and go. Or touch and stay. How likely it was that she'd walk out on him any second, so he needed to walk first.
She looked at him, to hand the solo over to him. And their eyes met, and he turned away immediately. Tears falling on his guitar. Damn, he couldn't take it. But he told her in the solo. "You are the single best thing that's ever happened to me, onstage or off. With you, I've hit the lottery."
Driving home that night, she wasn't sure if she knew what time it was yet. And that it was getting very late, too late to figure it out. More of her life was spent in that hovering place, just about to figure things out. Maybe. Maybe it was right next to her. Maybe it was still out there for her.
How amazing to be sitting next to a man who plays like that. To sing to him and to the audiences; to be in just the right magic time and space to make that kind of music. It didn't matter who heard. Even she didn't hear what she was singing. And so took it for granted. And was distracted by all the gear, setup and breakdown and getting lost in the wilds of New Jersey.
Life was no prize.
Still.
Nancy Lamott-I Didn't Know What Time It Was
