Monday, August 25

Elizabeth stopped here last week, driving across country towards a different life with a car full of stuff. She kept quoting lyrics, humming things, trying to describe songs.

See, I'm not the only one.

I believe in a better land
a place of peace in the golden sand
the windy streets in the summer time
a cloudless day when I feel fine

The Samples have a song called "We All Move On". Lyrically I suppose it's nothing spectacular. You have to hear it before it says anything to you. Most of the Samples' stuff is that way. They're not a great band in the sense that their whole catalog is breathtakingly good, or in the sense that they'll leave a giant, visible mark on American music. (Do you like American music? I like American music.)

But they are a great band in the sense that you hear them once, and it's ok, and you hear them again and they're really good. They travel a lot, they work hard, and when they're on stage they make the kind of music you'd like to share instead of describing it. We need that. Even in a world where the take is still on the drinks, it's worth a lot.

Leave the past with a lonely girl
who begs for love from her empty world
I've learned my lessons and I've learned them well
I drank the water from the wishing well

I heard from Sarah the other day. She's teaching now, doing her thing far enough away I don't see her often. I don't expect to know much more than that. There are precious few people I can really communicate with at a distance, and I don't want to demand some fake response when I know there's really not much to say. How are you, fine thanks and yourself, well gotta go, take care: It's just a way to destroy whatever you've shared with someone in the process of trying to preserve a connection.

My first kiss at sweet sixteen
the prettiest eyes I've ever seen
we used to sit around and laugh all day
and dream of all the things we'll be someday

We all move on.

p1k3 / 2003 / 8 / 25