Do you remember when you met Leonard Cohen's creations? His music, his poems , his songs? I do. I'm 64, and I was 21.
Discovering blew wide open some sort of delicious complex vulnerable awareness of that which had been streaming through me all along.
Some work simply speaks to us. It ranges right on in where we live and breathe and accompanies us, holding our hand. It reduces the glare and illuminates dark places and normalizes our acute instincts and remains with us in our poignant griefs and precious days.
And so, like many of us, his music continued to speak and accompany and embody and clarify.
I remember racing down a gutted Vermont road one early morning, VW van bouncing high as a bronco, secreting his book to a new love, placing it on their front doorstep and galloping away.
I remember painting /eating/studying/drawing/writing/dozing to his soft curled up ideas and stories and songs.
Becoming rendered by that infectious incessance of feeling and unwinding of stories.
Creations clarify our experience. They call and amplify and abide by us in ancient ways.
And so there is this experience that remains within me, of journeying with he whom I did not know, with his emanations and fears and lusts and dreams. The rich stuff forever after remaining and growing itself along.
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