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And It Doesn't Seem Like So Long Ago... before/after And it doesn't seem like so long ago... That I was in a musty basement in Denver. Jamming with some musicians, who'd seen their time go past. Their bellies round, their hair thinning. Everytime I went there, they hovered, and a few watched, some with jealousy. But they all clinged, as if I could with a touch of my hand give them youth. Almost vampiric in their friendship. Make me young, make me young, they seemed to say, without a word. And in between the bickering and puffed out chest bravado, I stopped to play some blues. A riff I wrote, something real nice that I like. Something to play on the porch and the neighbors just won't mind. Somethin' to play when it rains. And the notes writhed around me like the smoke from my ciggarrette, dying slowly in the ash-tray, neglected. Pot smoke filled the room, giving a heady atmosphere. And I felt the accompanyment, so much like the feathertip massage of angel's wings. Responding to it, changing how I played after they picked up the rhythym. Following my lead. The notes drifting from my guitar for my never love. And in that moment, life is what it was supposed to be for us all. Magical. Transcendant. Easy. As easy as breathing. The talking stopped. The music flowed, and souls dwelt in harmony amidst what used to be discord in that musty, ugly basement. Make me young, make me young, they seemed to say, without a word and an over-eager smile. And I did, with a stroke and a flourish all my own. For a moment or two. And the song ended, and I lifted my head to see the others, lifting their heads, as if coming to from a long deep sleep. Like meditation of the soul, plugging into the one world song, the one world spirit, channeling and flowing with the current of faith and love that brings us all together and allows creativity to beautify. Taking a breath not a word was said. Make me young, make me young, they seemed to say, without a word, without pride. And I did. And I wished that life could always be so easy for us all.
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