The warmth of cold-water ports

I’m writing from the last stop in our journey, a sweet hotel on the main drag in Port Jefferson, NY, a small village nestled against a harbor that opens to Long Island Sound.  

The local literature refers to Port Jefferson as a “charming village,” and the description fits on one level. Port Jeff, as the locals call it, has the requisite narrow roads, “quaint” (if huge!) Victorian houses, and lots of mom-and-pop shops (mostly catering, it appears, to tourists). It also hosts an annual Charles Dickens weekend in early December featuring a charity ball (in the local community center) and shows by assorted local artists (community theater, singing groups, arts and crafts shows, etc.). The location is far enough away from the frantic, congested world of New York City to serve as a destination for weekends away, and compared with The City, it is definitely, at 7800 residents, a “village.” But it feels a bit artificial, this studied quaintness, and the prices definitely reflect an expectation that big bucks will be spent in its charming shops. Sure enough, the chamber of commerce tells us that after the demise of the main industry, “Port Jefferson reinvented itself as a vacation spot. The ferries brought visitors, and bathhouses opened around the harbor.”

Still, it really is a lovely setting, the hotel is flat-out cool (we’re in a third-floor room with gables), breakfast at the local coffeehouse/café was excellent, I enjoyed my walk through town and along the shore, and I am absolutely content to spend a few days in the village of Port Jeff.

But enough of the travel guide. It’s my morning walk I want to write about. I took a long stroll along the harbor shore, and en route, I encountered a number of interpretive signs that sketched the history of the industry for which the town was known in the 1800s and early 1900s: they built ships here. I always love this sort of information, love imagining what life was like in that era, in this place, for folks with differing stations in the village social system. Today, one bit of information in particular jumped out at me: The shipbuilding operation really surged when the local company was recruited by the US government to build ships during WWI.

The reason this was so salient to me has to do with a book I’ve been reading: The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration. Through the individual stories of a few people, this book tells the larger story of the “Great Migration” of millions of African Americans from the South to the North.

Starting in the late 19^th and continuing through the mid-20^th century, they left to escape Jim Crow and to find decent work in northern cities—especially along the east coast (Washington DC, NYC, Philadelphia), in the Midwest (Chicago, Detroit), and on the west coast (Los Angeles, Oakland). “The Great Migration,” author Isabel Wilkerson writes, “would become a turning point in history. It would transform urban America and recast the social and political order of every city it touched.”

“Its imprint is everywhere in urban life. The configuration of the cities as we know them, the social geography of black and white neighborhoods, the spread of the housing projects as well as the rise of a well-scrubbed black middle class, along with the alternating waves of white flight and suburbanization—all of these grew, directly or indirectly, from the response of everyone touched by the Great Migration.”

A section I read just last night explains that the greatest mass movement occurred when folks had something to move to as well as something to escape from. That something was jobs, and the precipitating event was WWI. The nation badly needed workers to operate the industries that were necessary for the war effort. But the traditional source of cheap labor in the North—namely immigrants—slowed by over 90% during the war because immigration was largely halted. So companies seeking cheap labor looked to the other group who had always worked for paltry wages: African Americans. They sent recruiters south, where they (often secretly) planted the idea that jobs were plentiful in the North, workers were needed for the war effort, and “Negroes” would be welcome there. It worked.

So now you get the connection between my book and my walk. Port Jeff must have been even smaller in the early 1900s, and many local folks were likely off to war or to war-related jobs in larger cities. Who was left to build ships? Did the local shipbuilding company recruit Blacks from the South? Might Blacks have sought “a warmer sun” in this cold-water port? Would they even be drawn to a “charming village” on the north shore of Long Island? Maybe not. Most folks who moved north for jobs sought out locations where they already knew people—family or friends who had come before—and where they had connections. Chances are slim that there would be such communities in Port Jefferson. But, I thought to myself, maybe … I searched for any indication in the interpretive signs and photos, but saw no recognizable African American presence.

All of this led me to reflect, as I walked, on the distribution of people by “race,” what Wilkerson called “the social geography of black and white.” When we live apart, located in and identified with particular neighborhoods, the notion that we are different is constantly reinforced. Black people are the ones who live over there, down there, white folks think. Whites live over here, up here. Clearly, we conclude, they are different from us in ways that matter. “Race” serves to explain that difference.

While we were in Maryland last week, we went to the Smithsonian to see a new exhibit on human evolution. It was a great exhibition, really informative, with lots of hands-on elements and very accessible explanations of all sorts of stuff. The science of human evolution made such great sense as presented here. As I walked through this exhibit, I was struck by how carefully it presented and reinforced the fact that all humans are the same species, that there is no such thing as “race,” that about 99.9% of genetic material is identical in all humans. And yet, we have all learned to believe, at some level, that race is real. I belong to one race, whereas some other people belong to different races. Even if we can say that the “races” are equal, at some gut level, we still believe (because we’ve been so well taught) that race exists as a defining characteristic. And to some degree, we all enact that belief in our lives.

Not surprisingly, Blacks in the Jim Crow South wanted to escape from the daily oppression that shaped their lives. They wanted to experience, in the words of poet Richard Wright, “the warmth of other suns.” Yet, their migration didn’t end their oppression. Racism persisted, if in different forms, in the North. It was a different sun, but not necessarily a warm one. Race was still assumed to exist, and differences between races were not questioned by most folks—certainly not by the US government, which still sorted military enlistees according to “race.” If Black people came to Port Jefferson to build ships during WWI, they almost certainly wouldn’t have been welcomed into the social scene that now holds a Charles Dickens ball each December. It is likely that the established residents would have lived apart from the new ones arriving to work in the shipyards. As if they were different beings, different races. 

The village publicity is silent on the question of African Americans’ presence at any point. Yet census data cited in Wikipedia’s discussion of Port Jefferson indicate that 18.7% of the population was African American in 2000. When did they come and why? And where are they in this apparently white village? What is the geography of black and white here, and when was it established? On the other hand, data from the “city data” site on Port Jeff show a much lower proportion: 1.5% African Americans. No wonder they seem scarce. But why this discrepancy? Inquiring minds want to know!

It’s an odd confluence of experiences: the book, the story of local shipbuilding during WWI, and the Smithsonian exhibit. Combine these with my recent posting about the meaning of Thanksgiving, and you have a raft of convoluted reflections floating through my mind on this cloudy day in this sweet hotel in the charming village of Port Jefferson.

Ah, life is so complex.

Thanksgiving: Turkeys, treaties, and truth

I’m writing from a coffee shop in Hollywood, Maryland. (Really. Or maybe this is across the town line into California, MD. Really.) My partner and I are midway in a “road trip,” bookended by two professional gigs. It’s a couple of days after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is a deeply meaningful holiday in this country. Depending on your perspective, it may be the most wonderful of holidays or the most fraught. It may be “loaded” with warm memories of family gatherings and lovely fall days (or with fantasies of those things). Or it may be loaded with uncomfortable memories and uncomfortable interactions. For me, it’s loaded with complicated feelings and troubling historical and political meanings.

I recall hearing someone say that Thanksgiving is the most wonderful holiday because it’s not tied to any particular religious beliefs. It’s inclusive, they said, it’s celebrated by all of us, collectively. Here’s where the complications start. “All of us” presumes that we see ourselves as Americans (because no other nation is celebrating our Thanksgiving) … er, rather, as a United States-ians (because other countries in the Americas don’t celebrate Thanksgiving with us). So it’s not totally inclusive, but it’s at least inclusive of those of us who identify as US-ian. Well, unless we’re the original inhabitants of the land we now claim as US-ians. If you are among those people whose ancestors were actually here prior to the European invasion, this “holiday” may be a day of mourning.

Last time, I wrote about the then-upcoming “Sweet Land - Choices of Dignity” concert/event, which was performed by Sound Circle, Resonance, and others last week to celebrate the end of the election and the promise of four more years of (generally) progressive leadership. That, and to challenge us to make choices of dignity, to claim our own responsibility for the direction of our communities, large and small. During that performance (which I hope many of you heard), Sound Circle did a rendition of the old patriotic favorite, “America.” Kirsten Wilson, the “vision holder” for OneAction, One Boulder, had reframed the familiar song in minor but profound ways. (Recall that the project One Action, One Boulder undertook was to encourage conversations about and reflection on racism in our own communities). With Thanksgiving approaching, this change in particular caught my attention: The usual lyrics:

“Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ dreams

That see beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears.

… became …

Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ … [pause]

for Indians … [pause]

for genocide …

Some years ago, when we were living in Massachusetts, my partner and I spent two Thanksgiving days in Plymouth, MA, land of the “Pilgrims’ pride.” We spent those days participating in the counter-Thanksgiving conducted by local descendents of the Indian tribes who lived in this area in the 1600s. The tribes who were there when the Pilgrims moved in, claimed the land, killed rebellious Indians, displayed the head of one recalcitrant chief on a post in the center of town, and left it there for years as a reminder. We both had qualms about the meaning of Thanksgiving before, but after this experience, the holiday could mean only one thing: a celebration of genocide. In Caesar’s words, we (and “we” has to include us, as beneficiaries of this genocide) came, we saw, we conquered. And then we moved across the continent, seeing, conquering, claiming land that was not ours, eliminating the uncooperative native peoples along the way and assimilating the rest to our “superior” way of life.

Among the “One Action, One Boulder” events I attended during the year was a performance of “Rocks,Karma, Arrows,” a performance piece that sketched the history of the relationship between Boulder-area tribes and the settlers arriving in Colorado. I carried a number of messages away from that event, but the one that keeps coming to mind is this: “We are walking on stolen land.” A treaty with the United States gave the land where Boulder sits—in fact, the land all along the front range and well into the mountains—to the Northern Arapahoe in perpetuity. That means forever. That treaty was never renegotiated. But it was violated over and over by the “settlers” and their armies … by our government. That means that every day, I walk on, hold (illegal) claim to property on, enjoy the beauty of, and damage at will land that is not mine.

I mention this partly because of the obvious link to the Thanksgiving story. On this day dedicated to giving thanks, we celebrate a legendary event that amounted to the launching party for a campaign of continent-wide genocide. And I benefit from that every day. No, I wasn’t personally there. I didn’t kill any Indians or personally push them from their land. But I am responsible for recognizing that I benefit from that campaign. And when I allow myself to realize that, celebrating it feels so painfully inappropriate.

The other reason I mention this is that I just had an up-close-and-personal reminder of how easily I judge other people’s failure to acknowledge the privilege they gain from the oppression of others—even as I so easily forget my own. This past week, we were on a college campus in the South. The hotel where we stayed is built and decorated to evoke the old South—southern hospitality, southern elegance. But as we walked around, I couldn’t help but be reminded of southern plantations—the “big house” with its columns, porches, and elegant furnishings. It’s a lovely scene—until you consider the whiffs of slavery and unquestioned racism, the people who lived in the slave quarters just down the hill from the big house. Later, we walked around campus, learning bits of history from our friend and guide. Many of the buildings were very old, pre-civil war structures—which means that they were most likely the handiwork of slaves. I couldn’t help but ask, silently, to myself, “Have you never thought about who built these buildings?”

I was aware that this (rather judgmental) response came partly from an earlier visit to a campus in the south where we were told that the buildings were indeed constructed by slaves. In that case, the stewards of that campus had embarked on a project to make amends for that egregious mistreatment of other human beings. But I saw none of that in the people we met on this college campus. In fact, my attempts to raise this issue—noting how uncomfortable the “southern charm” made me feel—evoked no response from people I met, except, perhaps, a slightly uncomfortable change of topic. I was feeling pretty righteous about this (“Don’t they see their responsibility to address this?”), when my partner reminded me that Kirsten Wilson and One Action, One Boulder spent an entire year trying to get folks to see the same dynamic of avoidance and denial in our own back yard. … “I am walking on land that belongs to someone else.”

We are all responsible for recognizing and acknowledging our own privilege, recognizing ways in which we have—literally and figuratively—stolen our well-being from others. The point is not that we should feel guilty about this, but that we are responsible for what we do about it. Simply celebrating “Thanksgiving” without reflecting on, talking about, questioning the meaning of the holiday now seems irresponsible to me.

And yet, two days ago, I sat down to “Thanksgiving” dinner among people with whom I did not have this conversation. Nothing in the day or in the conversation even hinted at the holiday’s origin. Indeed, these folks, like many other people I know, would likely argue that the point of Thanksgiving is really to bring family together. They might also say that the point of the day is to remind us to be grateful for our many blessings. Still, “Thanksgiving” as we know it is built on a legend. In retrospect, it’s clear that the legend made super-human heroes of people most US-ians have historically identified with—European “settlers.” And it made sub-human demons of the people who have historically been unlike most of us—indigenous people of color, American Indians.

If we want a thanksgiving holiday that celebrates community and gratitude, then let’s do that, instead of deluding ourselves into thinking that these things capture the real meaning of our current “Thanksgiving” holiday. For me personally, the “Sweet Land” concert was as fine a celebration of community as I can imagine. I left it feeling uplifted, connected to community, and challenged to make choices of dignity.

And in that spirit, my partner and I have agreed that we won’t spend future Thanksgiving days in celebration (or avoidance) of the holiday’s legendary origins. Instead, we’ll find ways to explore the historical meaning of the day and honor the people at whose expense we enjoy such great privilege. Here are some of the ideas we’ve discussed: We can make a donation to the Native American Rights Fund, which does great work on behalf of American Indians (including work on those violated treaties). We can spend time with friends watching and discussing the video version of “Rocks, Karma, Arrows.” We can join with friends in a common reading and then share a meal discussing what we’ve read. And we can make a commitment to speak up, whenever possible, when we hear the legend with its distortion of what actually happened in New England in the early 1620s … and beyond.



 

Music for a Sweet Land

OK, enough of the second-guessing, the recriminations, and the self-adulation. Enough of the analyses and the pundits, enough of the advice from every splinter of every constituency of every party. That’s not to say that there’s no wound-licking left to do, no crowing, no slicing and dicing. But in a broad sense, it seems like time to move forward. Time to apply the lessons of the campaign and election, mapping and morphing them into useful directions. It's time, as Hebrew scripture advises, to beat the swords into plowshares. And what better way to do that, I say, than with music.

And, lo and behold, with exquisite timing born of sheer luck (on my part) and wisdom (on the part of others), I get to hear two concerts this week that are destined to provide hours of healing, inspiring, motivating music. The first is a performance on Wednesday by Jackson Browne, who, in addition to making beautiful music, is also known as a human rights and environmental activist. My personal all-time favorite is “The Rebel Jesus.” I don’t expect him to perform it this time, given that it’s really a Christmas song. But it’s relevant no matter what the season, so I can always hope.

And then, on Saturday, a concert that anyone within travelling distance of Boulder really, seriously wants to attend. Sweet Land—Choices of Dignity is a free, everyone-invited performance “inspired by the challenges of the presidential election and reflecting on our lives, our history, and our shared future.” It’s sponsored by Resonance Women’s Chorus of Boulder and Sound Circle, a women’s a cappella ensemble (both of which I’ve written about before and both of which are directed by Sue Coffee) and by One Action, One Boulder, a year-long program to encourage conversations and action around issues of race, class, and inclusion. In addition to performances by these two choruses, the event will feature local musicians, spoken word, the 1000 Voices Project, and more. The performance will be at First United Methodist Church (also a sponsor) at 14th and Spruce in Boulder. It starts at 7:00, but doors open at 6:30, and you can count on a line.

This is sounding like a promotional ad, but it’s really not. For one thing, the event is free, so there’s nothing to “sell.” But more to the point, the reason I wanted to call your attention to it is that I’m so impressed by the very existence of this event—which itself has nothing to sell, other than community.  A bit of a back story: 

Sue Coffee is best known as an inspired conductor, and you’ll see why in this concert. She is also deeply committed to building community, and she’s quietly wise in how she uses music to do that. This is not the first time Sue has worked with others in the community to create a free concert with precisely that goal in mind. She did it after the 2004 election and after the 2008 election. 

To quote Sue (with permission),

“We did a concert after 2004 called Music for a Purple Country, and after 2008 called How Can I Keep From Singing. . . . the collective need in 2004 was to come together, the collective need/gesture in 2008 was to celebrate.”

And here we are again, at the end of a horrendously long and bitter campaign, trying to find our way out of the sludge of political posturing, pandering, and prevarication and into sunrise in America (to reprise the theme of my last two blogs). And here are these two gifted choruses led by this gifted woman, joined by other artists and co-sponsored by a grassroots program intended to build community. It's perfect.

In Sue's words,

“The collective gesture of this election is a sigh of relief and a readiness to look ahead. . . . The Choices of Dignity subtitle speaks to 1. regardless of the outcome of the election, still there is the question: what are your personal choices? and 2. [it also] refers to Obama's intent to focus the country on important questions about how to be together.”

The evening will bring these many artists together to wrap us, residents of this sweet land, in hope even as they challenge us to make “choices of dignity.” What better way to spend a Saturday evening than in the midst of this kind of community, building community?

So, come! You will be ever so glad you did.   

Sunrise in America, part II

If you’re like me, you’ve been reading and listening to endless commentaries on the election—what happened and why, what lessons are to be learned, where we go next. Of the many, many post-election pearls of wit and wisdom, here are some I thought were especially good. If you haven’t already read them, take a look:

• Gail Collins (New York Times opinion columnist) on lessons from the election. I really enjoy her writing—her humor, her sort of down-home presence. And, of course, her politics.

• David Brooks (New York Times opinion columnist) with a very different “take” on what the Republicans should learn from this election, especially about the changing face of America. Brooks is the NYT’s most noted conservative columnist, yet I very often am challenged by his thinking and learn a lot from him. Instead of scolding, this column “schools” the Republican party in a most thoughtful way.

• Richard Socarides (former special assistant to President Clinton on LGBT issues— and son of a prominent psychiatrist, Charles Socarides, one of the prime proponents of so-called “conversion therapy” for LGBT folks) commenting on the amazing progress toward equal rights for LGBTQ folks we saw in this election. The steps forward were remarkable, and so is the deep shift in attitudes that these steps reflect. Which leads me to …

• Glenda Russell (the person who probably knows more than anyone else in the nation (the world?) about the impact of anti-LGBT politics on queer folks) writing about on the meaning of these events for the LGBTQ community. The positive across-the-board results were unexpected, and this piece discusses how we got here and where we go next.

•  Finally, to highlight the speed with which LGBTQ rights have changed, yesterday, Colorado’s Democratic legislators elected the state’s first openly gay Speaker of the House. This is an especially poignant event given that it was exactly 20 years ago, on November 2, 1992, to be precise, that Colorado voters passed the now-notorious Amendment 2, which literally legalized discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, leading Colorado to be branded the "Hate State." 

In case anyone thought “that hopey changey thing” wasn’t working …

Sunrise in America

"Sunrise in America" ... the title may be too close to an old Reagan slogan (“It’s morning in America”), but today, the sun is definitely, happily, showily up in America!  The light’s returning. Things are looking brighter than they have for months—since Romney’s rise first appeared to actually threaten “that hopey changey thing” (as Sarah Palin called Obama’s inspiring 2008 campaign theme). It may seem especially bright against the dark possibility of a president who had dismissed 47% of the electorate as irrelevant. An administration that would have gutted women’s rights, Dreamers’ dreams, the promise of decent health care, student loans, civil rights legislation, environmental regulations, LGBT gains … basically everything I believe in.

This early November morning, it is finally, happily sunrise in America.

I was reminded of Obama's iconic logo as I stood on a hill near my house watching the sun rise. Today, mercifully, the election is over, hope has won, and the sun is shining for real, as you can see.

To the east ...

                           to the south ...

                          

                 to the north ...

and to the west, the glorious west ...

welcome, sunrise.

Leonard Cohen, a thousand kisses deep

Saturday night, we went to hear Leonard Cohen in concert. I was about halfway excited and about equally wishing we weren’t going … an un-frantic end to the day sounded pretty nice. But we’d had tickets for months, and although we always see tickets as an opportunity and not an obligation, Cohen is getting up there in years, we both like his music and neither of us had ever seen him live, and it was right down the road. So off we went.

Little did we expect that it would be nearly four hours after the concert started before it ended. True, Cohen and his friends had initially left the stage about 10:30—already a longish concert. But they came back for an encore … and another … and another … and yet another. I usually think an encore is really just the tail end of the planned concert. But four of them?

My usual endurance level for concerts is right at two hours. By then, I’m ready for it to be over. I once sat through a delightfully timeless four-hour birthday concert for Pete Seeger in NYC, where my partner had taken me for my b-day. But that event featured many, many artists, lots of them personal favorites. The one last night, on the other hand, was virtually all one guy, with the help of his sidekicks. Actually, he featured all of his band members and back-up singers at various times. And well he should—they were all outstanding musicians. They were also a strikingly international group—Spain, England, Mexico, and Moldova, were represented (as well as the Republic of Texas.) Anyhow, they were great and he was amazing.

I’ve always appreciated Cohen’s music and his song-writing—how could you not like “Suzanne” and “Hallelujah” (the latter especially as sung by k.d.lang). But I had no idea I would be so entranced that I’d happily listen to four hours of his mellow, deep-voiced, often somber, almost always philosophical music. I really didn’t want it to end. Besides, watching him is almost as engaging as listening. He began many (most?) songs by falling to his knees, from which he rose effortlessly with nary a hand on the floor for a boost. Whether on his knees or standing, he virtually always sang with his head lowered and his shoulders rounded, his left hand cupping his mouth and the microphone. He wrapped his body around his music as if he were guarding it. My partner likened his posture to Kokopelli, and it fits.

I could say so much (did I mention it was four hours long?), but I want to talk about two things … two very different elements of this program that I found especially nice. The first was his frequent references to aging. He sang about aging in what seemed to me a really lovely way, not tragic or morose, not superficial or trivializing. Like you might describe an evening. His music seemed to comment on his aging as an interesting element of his life. Inevitable, present, sometimes getting in the way or disappointing, but never to be mourned or resisted. My partner thought he might be Buddhist, which would explain this attitude: death is simply part of the cycle of life, all things are impermanent, attachment causes suffering. Sure enough, I learned, he is a Buddhist monk. He is also a practicing Jew, and his music is full of Christian symbolism. Although that seems complicated, it also feels completely compatible with his deeply philosophical lyrics.

Back to aging ...

Several of his references to aging were sort of in passing—a line in one song about “this old man’s face,” another about “now I hurt in the places where I used to play.” But the song that really captured my attention was “A Thousand Kisses Deep,” which I had never listened to carefully before. I searched for the piece online and learned that it was initially published as a poem. He has performed it both as a song and in spoken-word form countless times over many years. And there may be as many versions as there have been performances. Folks who follow these things have explored the question of which is the “real” song and why he's created so many variations of it. But I figure a person can have as many versions as s/he wants of a song s/he wrote (and apparently keeps on writing). It's actually interesting to hear some of these—some are strikingly different from others, whereas some variations are rearrangements of lyrics seen in other versions. For a taste, you can read two very different sets of lyrics here and here. Better yet, you can listen to a fairly recent sung version of “A Thousand Kisses Deep” and also a recent spoken version. Then, if your curiosity is still curious, as mine was, finish up with an older spoken version (as a bonus, if you click on “show more” beneath this last video, you’ll see yet a third set of lyrics).

But the point I want to make is not about the fluidity of the lyrics but about the message this song carried, at least for me. Of course, I have no idea what Cohen actually meant to convey with this poem/song—and his meaning very likely changes along with the lyrics. But to me, at least on this particular evening and in the context of his other references to his aging, it sounded like a love song to life. Sung by a man who is growing old (78) and has had a rich, if not always smooth, life. By someone who regards aging as simply a reality. Someone who sees life as a lover with whom you speak gently and make love but to whom you don’t cling, as a lover whose passing is marked and whose departure is expected and even accepted—not sought, but also not resisted or dreaded. And if that doesn't sound Buddhist, I'm missing something.

    

If I were a psychologist for real, I might think that this is all projection—that I’m hearing in Cohen’s lyrics the song I’d like to (be able to) write to my life. But see what you think. Here are some of the lines that sound to me like an ode to life, recited from its waning years. These are excerpts from various versions of the song/poem. Most were in the version we heard the other night—not necessarily in this order. You can hear them all in his voice through the videos linked above.

Excerpts from (various versions of) “A Thousand Kisses Deep”

by Leonard Cohen

My mirrored twin, my next of kin    I’d know you in my sleep   And who but you would take me in   A thousand kisses deep   I’m just another snowman   Standing in the rain and sleet   Who loved you with his frozen love   His second hand physique   With all he is, and all he was   A thousand kisses deep   I hear their voices in the wine   That sometimes did me seek   The band is playing Auld Lang Syne   But the heart will not retreat   There's no forsaking what you love   No existential leap   As witnessed here in time and blood   A thousand kisses deep   The autumn moved across your skin   Got something in my eye   A light that doesn’t need to live   And doesn’t need to die   A riddle in the book of love   Obscure and obsolete   Until witnessed here in time and blood   A thousand kisses deep       The ponies run, the girls are young,     The odds are there to beat.     You win a while, and then it’s done –     Your little winning streak.     And summoned now to deal     With your invincible defeat,     You live your life as if it’s real,     A thousand kisses deep.     Don’t matter if the road is long     Don’t matter if it’s steep     Don’t matter if the moon goes out     And the darkness is complete     Don’t matter if we lose our way     It’s written that we’ll meet     At least that’s what I heard you say     A thousand kisses deep     We’ll that’s my story …     … all the twisted pieces fit     A thousand kisses deep

So that was my personal existential leap this weekend

And on a totally different topic …

Another thing I loved about the concert was the visual artistry of the lighting. We were sitting close enough to the stage that I was trying to catch some pictures of the concert. But soon, I felt like I was in a sunset-picture moment … you know, when each moment is more brilliant than the last, so you just keep snapping away. I gathered a slew of these pictures into a sort of rainbow so you can see how visually wonderful it was.

   

                                 

                       

        

A shot of the screen almost directly above us

 

                                                             

                         

  

 

                                                                        

  

           

And then he left ... over and over, the stage still changing color. Sort of like the song.