| And I know, this isn’t very helpful;
it hardly even says anything. If you could have seen the look on
the face of the guy who lives in the back yard, though, when the
song “Dedicate” really got rolling, I think you’d
know what I’m trying to get at, admittedly without success:
it was the smile of a person who has disappeared completely from
the world that once held him, reemerging into a music that reminds
him of what he’d abandoned but just long enough for that very
music to reabsorb him entirely. It was the exact cross-section of
the worldly and the astral, or the post-astral. It was the way his
body was remembering things that his mind, out of necessity, had
suppressed. It was liberating. We let the album play, and then we
hit repeat, and we stayed drunk until the sun had been up for two
hours, and then yer man went back out into the yard, and when we
oursleves finally hit the sack, the Whigs were blazing through their
magnificent cover of Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice’s “The
Temple” from Jesus Christ Superstar. You may not believe me,
but it’s true. The hot sun came up and we let sleep come back
and get us. We embraced. Someday we will all be buried up to our
necks. It’s knowing this that makes love so sweet. We levelled
our shotguns at the A/C unit and pulled the triggers. It was, as
they say, a religious experience. |