Wish You Were Here

And then I wrote again. I wrote even though it hurt my heart to think of how long I had not written. While listening to, casually (Or not so casually... Side story: I had been listening to it lately because I had been listening to Wyclef, because I had been listening to We Trying To Stay Alive because my new friend and music source Garrett had put it on one night, gotten me addicted. I listened to Wish You Were Here, realizing it was on my itunes for some unknown reason and obviously I love the Pink Floyd version - although obviously not a Pink Floyd FAN - and I had never listened to it. It reminds me of summer/Tessa just because, well, obviously. But even more importantly, you can always feel that way about so many things, in fact it pretty much perfectly describes everything and that's why it hurts so good.), Wish You Were Here by Wyclef Jean one Monday night smoking a nice big just-bought-an-eighth bowl in the window with Angie. I had to give her the background for full appreciation so I played her the original and realized it was my funeral happening in this room, just like this slow mo last scene of the movie of my life, but also how much I take things things for granted, like, I take that song for granted. I immediately wondered how I might have felt hearing this song for the first time, when it first came out. And I realize how rare of a thing the song really is, for the words that cut you, softly, in their stark truth. For the layers gently building, every last melody, and for the structure and also for life and I'm brought back down to realize once again the value everything holds and music music music I'll do you 'til I die, I bow down to you I'm your servant and you are mine and we thrive, we struggle but we thrive and we're staying alive as anything can possibly be, which is both infinitely greater and less than you might imagine, living in perfect harmony of utter desperate thirst and eternal, ecstatic satisfaction. I live for the funk, I'll die for the funk. I mean it if I die tonight here I die and you can tell Rolling Stone magazine that my last words were I'm on drugs

Oh Lordy

I'm standing by the window where the light is strong.
They don't let a woman kill you not in the tower of song.