— Virginia Woolf, The Years
|Brewster train station.|
|Grand Central Station.|
And that's where the toughest rub is, the not having a place and not having a place here. As I mentioned a few weeks ago, the reality / unreality / comfort / discomfort / normal / abnormal - ness of being in my familiar stomping grounds where I have access but no foothold. Well, I shan't belabor the point as I am not the first to make it nor is it likely that it won't come up again.
But it makes me blue.
Meanwhile, trudging through the Leonard Cohen/Jeff Buckley book which I heartily discourage anyone from reading unless you are stuck with something orders of magnitude more egregious (you can think of your own examples tonight, I have limited emotional space for my usual crushing didacticism), I have come across the desultory intelligent remark or reflection, this one by k.d. lang:
"I think spirituality in general in our society has been diffused into some sort of relationship between the pop culture and our own personal pillars we create for ourselves. As culture moved forward, we were counting on God less, and people settled into some sort of spirituality that they created for themselves, and a lot of it has to do with incorporating their own human desire. We're greatly craving some sort of spirituality in music."
|Study in black and white.|
Here are the lyrics to Hallelujah should any of you not know them and a link to the original version: