Never miss a Sunday show, they say, and sitting on my couch, as the Summer Sun waned to an early dusk that hints at the longer nights of Autumn, I struggled to raise myself, and when did, went ranging for caffeine to give me courage, only to find both bodegas on my block closed early–
So, arrive there I did, to the wooden amphitheater, and an empty lawn, that had been the place of earlier revelries when our planet was a bit further back in its path around the sun, and returned to the scene of the crime, where my momentary abandonment of Miss M. Gardener lead to confusions and aggravations and loss of cool and property–
But look not to the past, but to the present now, or rather, the present that gives rise to the greater past, and I went down to the right side of the amphitheater, which is open on the side so that at the edges, you can look out past the wooden roof and see the cool night-sky and I think back to when I was either two or three years old, and went with my parents and my aunt and my poor dead uncle (I think) to go see James Taylor at the Mann, and liked it so much I was dancing in the aisle, even then, even then, and remember still, vividly, looking out and seeing the great big moon low in the sky—
And the tragedy and pain of being able to remember a night so well when I was mere hundreds of days old —
it breaks my heart, as this world does, it breaks my heart.
and yet that is now how I felt, sitting there, alone, in the great empty amphitheater, master of space and time, listening to the music, looking at the moon—
I did not feel broken-hearted; I felt safe, and content, and rooted in my self and past and place;
I felt like I was where I was supposed to be.