Knopfler is on about the Christmas dance, Mr. McIntyre, and the fat girl that got left at the side. I am trying to relate to that song. I cannot. I don’t dance. Never have. At least not a dance that has a name and followers, anyway.
Tonight’s Knopfler Night, as I have called it. His voice doesn’t need your ears, it reaches straight into the heart. I have invited a few friends to share this voice. No one has accepted the invitation as yet. It will be an hour before I clear this damned traffic, hopefully some will have accepted by then. Unless they are in this same damned traffic.
Traffic has become a solace nowadays. It’s the place to be, yet be nowhere. Feels like Ruby Tuesday again, on a Friday. The abstract expression escapes me, however. Finding a romantic expression in dreadful situation is losing its romance.
Knopfler is saying something about the selves of books and the picture hooks and everything that is gone, but the heart, that still hangs on.
This is what they mean, perhaps, about being alone in a crowd. I never knew if it was supposed to be a good thing or a bad one. But I could get used to it. It’s almost an hour to yourself. Not having a driver is even better. You cannot fiddle and play with the phone or read a book. It is a complete escape. Zombie-like, sticking to one lane, thinking of Seth Godin’s Dip, it is almost like being in a train, with a car to yourself.
Knopfler is now claiming that he will get to where he will be eventually, while wondering if there is no forever, all the while insisting that true love will never fade.
Gaizabonts 