For days after your funeral, everyone said they couldn't sleep - but not me. I couldn't wait to go to bed because I knew there was a chance I could dream about you. Just like old times, we'd meet up after hours when the bars closed and everyone else was stumbling home. The fog in the hills and the moon on the river were no less surreal than the dreams we're confined to these days. The difference now is that I know it's a dream all along - but I don't let that stop me from giving in to all the joy, the tenderness, or even the pain. I'd rather have any of those feelings than the emptiness of being without you every day.
Come to think of it, it's alot like when we met. I thought we were bad news from the beginning, but something in my heart just would not let me walk away. Finally, I uncaged it and let the chips fall. Boy did that change things! Instead of walking around with the heavy frustration of pent-up love and appreciation, my heart was light as a feather. I couldn't help but love you, and show you, and forgive you, and lift you up - and it was amazing! But it didn't stop there. I finally felt ok with admitting all the good that I see in people and ignoring the risks they pose. The light in my heart was strong enough to love and be loved, or love and be hurt without wavering. I was able to act instead of react, and it was appreciated. There was no more lamenting a situation gone wrong because I did what I thought I was supposed to do instead of what I wanted to do...until I left.
You called me out one night at a gig - "My friend Brooke is back in town. She's changing the world on Capitol Hill - so if you don't like healthcare then you know who to call!" When you saw the horrified look on my face you laughed and said "I'm just kiddin' ya'll. But she's been sending some sad postcards lately so I'm going to play a song for her." It was 60 of Fame - my favorite Bent Russell original. You played it for me the night before I left for DC and you choked up. The night after we towed your car off the interstate, you played Joe Cocker's "With a Little Help from my Friends." When we were feeding geese by the river sunrise it was "Into the Mystic." When I was at the bar drinking by myself, it was "Soulshine." The first time you ever played anything for me, it was "Follow Through," by Gavin Degraw (you actually played it for the newlyweds, but you told me later that it was for me, too). The night that I said your medly of "Superstitious" and "Midnight Rider" was a real panty-dropper, you played it even swampier and with a little more stank on it. When the whole crew came to a gig, you always gave us "Friend of the Devil," "Banana Pancakes," and "Sister Golden Hair." And whenever you asked, "what should I play ya'll?" I would fire back, "Play something GOOD!" and you would oblige my request for an original. One time you called me to tell me that you had a new tune that you really thought I was going to love called, "Wake Up." When I heard it, I was so happy for you that I misted up a little. But the last time I saw you play a solo gig, you called me out for my sad post-cards and played "60 of Fame."
I mentioned in my postcards that I felt out of place in this city. Nothing is genuine, everything is strategic, and for me to get to a job where I can really help some folks out, I was afraid I would have to b
Come to think of it, it's alot like when we met. I thought we were bad news from the beginning, but something in my heart just would not let me walk away. Finally, I uncaged it and let the chips fall. Boy did that change things! Instead of walking around with the heavy frustration of pent-up love and appreciation, my heart was light as a feather. I couldn't help but love you, and show you, and forgive you, and lift you up - and it was amazing! But it didn't stop there. I finally felt ok with admitting all the good that I see in people and ignoring the risks they pose. The light in my heart was strong enough to love and be loved, or love and be hurt without wavering. I was able to act instead of react, and it was appreciated. There was no more lamenting a situation gone wrong because I did what I thought I was supposed to do instead of what I wanted to do...until I left.
You called me out one night at a gig - "My friend Brooke is back in town. She's changing the world on Capitol Hill - so if you don't like healthcare then you know who to call!" When you saw the horrified look on my face you laughed and said "I'm just kiddin' ya'll. But she's been sending some sad postcards lately so I'm going to play a song for her." It was 60 of Fame - my favorite Bent Russell original. You played it for me the night before I left for DC and you choked up. The night after we towed your car off the interstate, you played Joe Cocker's "With a Little Help from my Friends." When we were feeding geese by the river sunrise it was "Into the Mystic." When I was at the bar drinking by myself, it was "Soulshine." The first time you ever played anything for me, it was "Follow Through," by Gavin Degraw (you actually played it for the newlyweds, but you told me later that it was for me, too). The night that I said your medly of "Superstitious" and "Midnight Rider" was a real panty-dropper, you played it even swampier and with a little more stank on it. When the whole crew came to a gig, you always gave us "Friend of the Devil," "Banana Pancakes," and "Sister Golden Hair." And whenever you asked, "what should I play ya'll?" I would fire back, "Play something GOOD!" and you would oblige my request for an original. One time you called me to tell me that you had a new tune that you really thought I was going to love called, "Wake Up." When I heard it, I was so happy for you that I misted up a little. But the last time I saw you play a solo gig, you called me out for my sad post-cards and played "60 of Fame."
I mentioned in my postcards that I felt out of place in this city. Nothing is genuine, everything is strategic, and for me to get to a job where I can really help some folks out, I was afraid I would have to b
