Why did he write it – at all? It is a happy song and painful at the same time.
I met yet another friend, tonight, after about six years, seven perhaps. To begin with, the Belgian beer became a reason – after a while it became an excuse. This song about the moon was a reason, perhaps an excuse.
The last time I wrote about this song, it was really that – a June Moon. It was about finding friends.
Oh, one for the Trappist monks, one for the caramel, after a while we didn’t care.
You see, even after a six years, it takes six minutes to catch up on the six lost years. We are now back to what the present and the future holds for us.
If you want to write a song about the moon
Walk along the craters of the afternoon
When the shadows are deep
And the light is alien
And gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement
And you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
The last time I wrote about this song, I actually saw the moon on a June night
Because the heart will howl
Like a dog in the moonlight
And the heart can explode
Like a pistol on a June night
So if you want to write a song about the heart
And its ever-longing for a counterpart
Write a song about the moon
What is it about this song that is about friends meeting after years together? Taking a few minutes to capture the years lost in time and becoming one, as if no time or geography set them apart?
I met my friend, over a few Belgian beers. As if nothing changed, even if our lives since we last me have been ripped apart towards the limits that we haven’t experienced.
I am blessed.
I have people in my life who will allow me to be who I am, be a child and adult at the same time when I talk of songs, poetry, opera and philosophy. Then, there are some who insist on my adulthood. I forgive them. I am blessed, for I have people who will come in my life at the right time to encourage me to do thing that I love the most, yet that I dread. They push me. They allow me to be.
If you want to write a song about
Think about a photograph
That you really can’t remember
Faces, I remember. After all, they (the faces) and their voices are the ones who shaped me. Oh, I don’t forget faces, if they talk to me. It’s almost like a recurring alarm that rings to wake me up with harsh tunes from time to time.
I oftentimes wonder why I bind my life with those that don’t choose to share the beauty that I see. I wish that they would “see”, but, then again, I wish that I am not constrained by the limitation of their vision.
I have a life. A beautiful one at that. I need to open my eyes, more than I need to open theirs.