Your Irish Blood, English Heart (4/6/11)
I am thrilled to pieces that there are finally tour-dates posted up on your fan-blog. The only thing that does not thrill me is that there are no US dates on said list. Sorta gives me that feeling of being given my entry-card but having the coordinator completely aware of the fact that I’m not really able to make it. Can’t exactly hitch a ride across the pond…
What a bittersweet nostalgic flavor it gives – the idea that I just might be able to hear your melancholy music sometime in the next year or two and feel renewed the memories which it returns me to; both good and bad.
I am thrilled to pieces that there are finally tour-dates posted up on your fan-blog. The only thing that does not thrill me is that there are no US dates on said list. Sorta gives me that feeling of being given my entry-card but having the coordinator completely aware of the fact that I’m not really able to make it. Can’t exactly hitch a ride across the pond…
What a bittersweet nostalgic flavor it gives – the idea that I just might be able to hear your melancholy music sometime in the next year or two and feel renewed the memories which it returns me to; both good and bad.
It’s like my old neighborhood friends who come and go. They disappear for a while only to return just as loved as before. They may have hooked up or gotten married and moved away; they may have flown the coop to the town we both had planned on running away to but we’re all still cool like that when they pop back up out of the woodwork. A good way to distinguish a true friend from those fair-weather connections – the true-to-you return like they never left in the first place. You are not judged, disparaged or dismissed for the ways you’ve changed and grown. You are all just embraced back into the fold like you met 4 past-lives ago.
Images in my memory of the youthful you – swinging your gladiolas around the stage seemingly in defiance of the cogs-and-wheels entertainment grind and your own timidity – are a symbol of my youth in upheaval. It was not your fame or beauty (ok, maybe it was partly my crush on you) that got my pens and pencils running the race down all writeable surfaces; pages & pages of journals, scrap memo-book paper, napkins, paper-towels and Formica school-desks; but your pied-piper call to every disenchanted soul; every heartbroken, abused and jaded teen and young-adult; every angry young square-peg. You were the place and the page we fit into.
It’s too bad we’re almost a generation apart. We actually have lots in common. Both shy, somewhat introverted individuals angry at the stupidity and carelessness of the world around us; both having a sort of rhythmic artistic ability to write in verse to beautify our pain in our minds while slaying others with the depiction. We’d have made great friends, you and I – we’d have slain all those angry windmills with our mightier swords.
Images in my memory of the youthful you – swinging your gladiolas around the stage seemingly in defiance of the cogs-and-wheels entertainment grind and your own timidity – are a symbol of my youth in upheaval. It was not your fame or beauty (ok, maybe it was partly my crush on you) that got my pens and pencils running the race down all writeable surfaces; pages & pages of journals, scrap memo-book paper, napkins, paper-towels and Formica school-desks; but your pied-piper call to every disenchanted soul; every heartbroken, abused and jaded teen and young-adult; every angry young square-peg. You were the place and the page we fit into.
It’s too bad we’re almost a generation apart. We actually have lots in common. Both shy, somewhat introverted individuals angry at the stupidity and carelessness of the world around us; both having a sort of rhythmic artistic ability to write in verse to beautify our pain in our minds while slaying others with the depiction. We’d have made great friends, you and I – we’d have slain all those angry windmills with our mightier swords.
