I'm Your Man (Leonard Cohen)

I posted some of the following on Star Maker Machine (for our Early Theme)... but it's worth repeating here - I've also expounded a bit:

Oh... my... god, my husband and I saw Leonard Cohen last Saturday night and it was a religious experience (concert review here) - I admit to hyperbolic tendencies but... I swear it was the best concert I've seen in my entire life (all 55 years' worth!)...

The Songs of Leonard Cohen, his debut album, was released in December 1967... but I didn't become aware of him until a year and a half later when, as a high school sophomore, a friend played me Roberta Flack's version - I of course liked her voice... but I adored *his* songwriting, and went on a mission to find the original. I still love to tell the story of typing term papers to put myself through college... and one guy didn't have quite enough cash so he offered up his copy of New Skin for the Old Ceremony to supplement my payment - we called it even...

My husband reminded me I turned him on to Cohen's music when we started dating - Cohen Live retains a place of honor in the 5-disc CD changer in our bedroom, 33 years later. His lyrics are poetry and sex and humor all rolled into one... not to mention that sonorous, seductive voice - I'm Your Man indeed (whew!)...

We spent a ridiculous amount of money for 2 ninth-row floor seats last weekend but, for all my devotion, I'd never had the opportunity to see him live... and it was the proverbial no-brainer as he had recently returned to the stage after a 15-year absence (since his manager had embezzled all his money, about $5 million) - I swayed, I swooned, I swore (f*ck me - is this a dream?!?) as he preached to the choir, turning the many-thousand-seat arena into an intimate lounge, connecting with each of us on a generous and gracious level, grateful that we still cared enough for his music to be in attendance...

Cohen is now 75 years old... and he displays the wisdom of his age while maintaining a youthfulness of spirit - he skipped on and off the stage, in a three hour show, punctuated with only a 20-minute break somewhere in the middle. When any member of his spectacular band (everyone on the stage was wearing a suit, even the women) was performing a solo, Cohen would take off his fedora, place it over his heart and give that person his full attention. How very cool to have Sharon Robinson, his collaborator on many songs, as one of the Greek chorus of back-up singers - the other two, Hattie and Charley Webb, treated us to a stellar rendition of If It Be Your Will about 3/4 of the way through the show. Cohen's personal comments between songs, although obviously rehearsed, felt sincere... and the professionalism of musicianship was evident in every aspect - my husband and I were in tears at various points throughout the evening...

The next day, I went googling for his most recent recording, as I felt I had missed one or two, and found the Live in London 2-CD set - I of course ordered it immediately, it came yesterday and it's been wonderful to re-live the magical moments from this tour. Sometimes coming face-to-face with one's icon (even in a crowded concert hall) can not only meet but exceed one's expectations - I'm even more of a fan than I was, if that's at all possible...

SONG: I'm Your Man by Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Leonard Cohen: Hallelujah: A New Biography by Tim Footman

POEM: Book of Longing (Dear Reader) by Leonard Cohen (Los Angeles, March 22, 1998)

I can´t make the hills
The system is shot
I´m living on pills
for which I thank G-d

There´s sun in the leaves
and birds in the tree.
Nobody believes
it´s written by Thee.

I used to be song
I used to be cock
but time is long gone
past my laughingstock

I bid you good-bye
There´s nothing to add
I´ve tried and I try
to stop going mad

I followed the course
from chaos to art
My dick was the horse
my life was the cart

I´m back at my desk
(the end of the line)
a bee in my breast
a snake in my spine

The silverware shines
that my mother left
to me when she died
fulfilled and bereft

My leash is too long
I think that I´m free
I´d leap at the young
but I´m sixty-three

I know what I want
It took many lives
I´m cured by the cunt
I´m killed by the eyes

The sorrows are real
as froth on the wave
as shit on the beach
the city´s disgrace

Who cares what I say
I´m not who I was
I´m paid what I pay
I´m always in love

The summer won´t come
´till I go to bed
The birds will return
when the dog is dead

You can´t say it right
when you touch yourself
But truth´s not advice
It is total health

The crap on my back
the piss in my face
but happy at last
in the Holy Place

You can´t go too deep
if you want to swim
where the mermaids weep
out of love for Him

I`m nothing but lust
I´m nothing but pain
I did these mistrust
but Never Again

I say what I want
for I am the Child
of G-d coming home
and His Wife gone wild

I don´t need a thing
I use what I have
a moth-eaten wing
a worm cut in half

With these I invoke
The Name to draw nigh
I´m clamped in a stock
to hold my head high

My animal howls
My angel´s upset
And deep in my bowels
the shit of regret

You can´t stop a man
from loving too much
I´m still licking stamps
from trying it once

My pen is too wet
My ink is too black
The Winner won´t get
his foot on the track

But the one like me
with light in her eye
is utterly free
to crawl or to fly

And she´ll know the path
I carved through the pain
my will cut in half
and Freedom between

I´ll meet her one day
when the time is right
for me to display
my flare in the night

for the space in space
to cough up the Word
that seals our Embrace
unharmed and unheard

And Mercy at last
for one doubled up
and tied to the mast
with the flags of love

And thank´s be to you
for helping me out
when Youth had no clue
what´s it all about

Your kindness is kind
your trueness is true
I pray that you´ll find
your Beloved, too

as I have found mine
where I´d never look:
in the threaded spine
of my Longing Book.

QUOTE: "The heart goes on cooking, sizzling like shish kebab." ~ Leonard Cohen

Joan of Arc (Leonard Cohen)

From today's Writer's Almanac:

It was on this day in 1431 that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy in Rouen, France. She was an ordinary French peasant girl, living during the Hundred Years War between France and England. When she was still a teenager, she heard the voice of God telling her to join the battle and help defeat the English army. She performed a series of apparent miracles and persuaded the French army to let her command a group of soldiers. At the battle of Orleans, she led the French army, bearing a flag with Jesus' name written across it, and the English were defeated. She continued fighting battles until May 23, 1430, when she was captured by enemy soldiers. They turned her over to the church to be tried as a heretic, idolater, and sorcerer.

Her trial lasted for months. Every day she was brought into the interrogation room, where she was the only woman among judges, priests, soldiers, and guards. The judges hoped to trick her into saying something that would incriminate her as a witch, so they asked endless questions about all aspects of her life, in no particular order. They were especially interested in her childhood, and because the transcripts of the trial were recorded, we now know more about her early life than any other common person of her time.

She testified that she had learned from her mother how to pray and how to clean the house, and that she was an excellent sewer and spinner. She talked about the games she played as a child, the songs she sang and the way she and other children danced around a particular tree in their town. She pointed out that she preferred singing to dancing. She said that she'd always loved the sound of bells ringing in her town, and she was greatly upset whenever the bell wasn't rung on schedule. She said that many of the people in her village believed in fairies, and that her godmother claimed to have seen a fairy once, but she doubted it. She said that she first started hearing divine voices when she was 13, while working in her father's garden.

After months of questioning, she was told that if she didn't sign a confession, she would be put to death. She finally signed it, but a few days later she renounced the confession, and on this day in 1431, she was burned at the stake. She was 19 years old.

She was mostly forgotten for about 400 years, and then she was revived as a patriotic figure during the French revolution. In 1920, she was canonized as a saint by Pope Benedict XV. She is the only person ever burned at the stake for heresy who later became a saint.

SONG: Joan of Arc by Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Joan of Arc: In her own words, Willard Trask (translator)

POEM: Rouen: Place de la Pucelle by Maria White Lowell

Here blooms the legend fed with time and chance,

Fresh as the morning, though in centuries old;

The whitest lily in the shield of France,

With heart of virgin gold.

Along this square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc,

With face more pallid than a day-lit star,

Half seen, half doubted, while before her dark

Stretched the array of war.

Swift furled the battle-smoke of lying breath

From off her path, as if a wind had blown,

And showed no faithless king, but righteous death

On the low, wooden throne.

He would reward her; she who meekly wore

Alike her gilded mail and peasant gown,

Meekily recieved once earthly honor more, -

The formless, fiery crown.

A white dove trembled up the heated air,

And in the opening zenith found its goal;

Soft as a downward feather fell a prayer

For each repentant soul.

QUOTE: "The most tangible of all visible mysteries - fire." ~ Leigh Hunt

Dance Me to the End of Love (Leonard Cohen)

Notting Hill is one of my husband's favorite movies - we watched it on TV for probably the bazillionth time this past weekend, and these lines always seem to tickle my fancy... :-)

Anna Scott: I can't believe you have that picture on your wall.

William: You like Chagall?

Anna Scott: I do. It feels like how being in love should be. Floating through a dark blue sky.

William: With a goat playing the violin.

Anna Scott: Yes - happiness isn't happiness without a violin-playing goat.

SONG: Dance Me to the End of Love by Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Dance Me to the End of Love by Leonard Cohen (Author), Henri Matisse (Illustrator)

POEM: Living Together by David Whyte

We are like children in the master's violin shop
not yet allowed to touch the tiny planes or the rare wood
but given brooms to sweep the farthest corners
of the room, to gather shavings, mop spilled resins
and watch with apprehension the tender curves
emerging from apprenticed hands. The master
rarely shows himself but whenever he does he demonstrates
a concentrated ease so different from the willful accumulation
of experience we have come to expect,
a stripping away, a direct appreciation of all the elements
we are bound, one day, to find beneath our hands.

He stands in our minds so clearly now, his confident back
caught in the light from pale clerestory windows
and we note the way the slight tremor of his palms
disappears the moment they encounter wood.

In this light we hunger for maturity, see it not as stasis
but a form of love. We want the stillness and confidence
of age, the space between self and all the objects of the world
honoured and defined, the possibility that everything
left alone can ripen of its own accord,
all passionate transformations arranged only
through innocent meetings, one to another,
the way we see resin allowed to seep into the wood
in the wood's own secret time. We intuit our natures
becoming resonant with one another according
to the grain of the way we are made. Nothing forced
or wanted until it ripens in our own expectant hands.

But for now, in the busy room, we stand in the child's
first shy witness of one another, and see ourselves again,
gladly and always, falling in love with our future.

QUOTE: "Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring." ~ S.J. Perelman

Anthem (Leonard Cohen)

So... after five days of relationship musings, discussions of crashed hard drives should be the proverbial piece of cake (not wedding), eh? - when last we left our She-ra, I was waiting for my tech guy, who came Saturday morning a week ago, attempted to run CheckDisk with minimal results and then took my tower with him. He installed a replacement this past Tuesday, but he's not been able to recover any data (although he's still trying) - sadly enough, I had never backed up, so I take full responsibility...

A few major things I had been able to recreate or had sent as attachments in the last month so they were retrievable - most everything else was not only irreplaceable but sentimentally dear. At this point, I'm attempting to focus on the bright side of clean slate/starting over - my e-mail is okay, albeit almost 600 messages at this point, since I've not had the time/inclination/energy to deal.

This weekend has been critical in moving forward - I'm also attempting to set up an organizational filing system right off the bat so I'll know where to find things immediately. I obviously have a back-up drive now too - god, what a hard lesson learned.

Panic, breathe, relate, relax, release - it is what it is (oooooommmmmm)...

My book club (more in a future post) was here this past Thursday to discuss Eat Pray Love - it was an amazing evening of soul-searching, sharing and spirit. We all felt really... open (in a good way, Martha)... and I was fascinated by the different insights and preferences - Elizabeth Gilbert certainly speaks to many hearts in various ways. J sent me this link a few days ago - make sure to peruse all three pages!

I read today's poem aloud to our group (obviously because it reminded me of the second third of the book) - wanting judgment sadness indeed...

SONG: Anthem by Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Mindfulness in Plain English by Bhante H. Gunaratana

POEM: Buddha's Dogs by Susan Browne

I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching

my mind with my mind,

and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,

and it's not even noon yet.

In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in

one minute, and the longest

was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an outdoor cafe and order a glass

of Sancerre, smoked trout with roasted potatoes and baby

carrots and a bowl of gazpacho.

But I stayed and learned to name my thoughts, so far they are:

wanting, wanting, wanting,

wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, judgment,

sadness. Don't identify with your

thoughts, the teacher says, you are not your personality, not your

ego-identification,

then he bangs the gong for lunch. Whoever, whatever I am is

given instruction

in the walking meditation and the eating meditation and walks

outside with the other

meditators, and we wobble across the lake like The Night of the
Living Dead.

I meditate slowly, falling over a few times because I kept my

foot in the air too long,

towards a bench, sit slowly down, and slowly eat my sandwich,

noticing the bread,

(sourdough), noticing the taste, (tuna, sourdough), noticing

the smell, (sourdough, tuna),

thanking the sourdough, the tuna, the ocean, the boat, the

fisherman, the field, the grain,

the farmer, the Saran Wrap that kept this food fresh for this

body made of food and desire

and the hope of getting through the rest of this day without

dying of boredom.

Sun then cloud then sun. I notice a maple leaf on my sandwich.

It seems awfully large.

Slowly brushing it away, I feel so sad I can hardly stand it, so I

name my thoughts; they are:

sadness about my mother, judgment about my father, wanting

the child I never had.

I notice I've been chasing the same thoughts like dogs around

the same park most of my life,

notice the leaf tumbling gold to the grass. The gong sounds,

and back in the hall.

I decide to try lying down meditation, and let myself sleep. The

Buddha in my dream is me,

surrounded by dogs wagging their tails, licking my hands.

I wake up

for the forgiveness meditation, the teacher saying, never put

anyone out of your heart,

and the heart opens and knows it won't last and will have to

open again and again,
chasing those dogs around and around in the sun then cloud

then sun.

QUOTE: "Meditation is acceptance. It is the acceptance of life within us, without us and all around us. Acceptance of life is the beginning of human satisfaction. Transformation of life is the culmination of divine satisfaction. " ~ Sri Chinmoy

Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen)

Finally, I have internet again in my home - to quote Mr. Garcia: what a long, strange trip it's been...

I've learned a lot about myself this week - powerlessness is not my favorite feeling. I am normally a patient and understanding person, to the extreme - it takes a lot to ruffle my metaphorical feathers and I have a very high tolerance for frustration.

[ I started typing out the blow-by-blow of events, which just served to take me right back to the negative place - I'm deleting now... ]

What I can't abide are broken promises, processes that break down and situations that cause me to lose trust - I've been tested the last 6 days, making lemonade from lemons (i.e., catching up on my reading) some of the time... and reducing myself to the common denominator (shrieking and swearing, although not *at* anyone) on other occasions...

Mostly I've just tried to breathe... and I've vowed to attempt to become less dependent on this mode of communication in the future (easier said than done, when I'm involved in so many extra-curricular activities) - relate, relax, release... look forward... and continue to trust, even when it seems impossible... :-)

SONG: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen

BOOK: The Speed of Trust: The One Thing that Changes Everything by Stephen M. R. Covey and Rebecca R. Merrill

POEM: Trust by Thomas R. Smith

It's like so many other things in life

to which you must say no or yes.

So you take your car to the new mechanic.

Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

The package left with the disreputable-looking

clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,

the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—

all show up at their intended destinations.

The theft that could have happened doesn't.

Wind finally gets where it was going

through the snowy trees, and the river, even

when frozen, arrives at the right place.

And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life

is delivered, even though you can't read the address.

QUOTE: "The ultimate measure of (wo)man is not where (s)he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where (s)he stands at times of challenge and controversy." ~ Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

God is Alive/Magic is Afoot (Buffy Sainte-Marie/Leonard Cohen)

Feeling a bit more quietly reflective today - it's Sunday (enough said... :-)

SONG: God is Alive/Magic is Afoot by Buffy Sainte-Marie and Leonard Cohen

BOOK: Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman

POEM: In the Park by Maxine Kumin

You have forty-nine days between
death and rebirth if you're a Buddhist.
Even the smallest soul could swim
the English Channel in that time
or climb, like a ten-month-old child,
every step of the Washington Monument
to travel across, up, down, over or through
–you won't know till you get there which to do.
He laid on me for a few seconds
said Roscoe Black, who lived to tell
about his skirmish with a grizzly bear
in Glacier Park. He laid on me not doing anything. I could feel his heart
beating against my heart.
Never mind lie and lay, the whole world
confuses them. For Roscoe Black you might say
all forty-nine days flew by.

I was raised on the Old Testament.
In it God talks to Moses, Noah,
Samuel, and they answer.
People confer with angels. Certain
animals converse with humans.
It's a simple world, full of crossovers.
Heaven's an airy Somewhere, and God
has a nasty temper when provoked,
but if there is a Hell, little is made of it.
No longtailed Devil, no eternal fire,

and no choosing what to come back as.
When the grizzly bear appears, he lies/lays down
on atheist and zealot. In the pitch-dark
each of us waits for him in Glacier Park.

QUOTE: "When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman." ~ Virginia Woolf