My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Concert
The audience tried hard to feel what Brel had felt. They wanted to share the fear and hope and defiance of his music. They reached out to absorb the flame, hatred or passion they thought was there. But when the lights came up they sensed that for them it had to end. Their's was not the freedom of those whose hearts sing as fully as their voices. The show was over. Reality closed over them and they went home.
Labels:
music
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