We went to Monticello.
The Gatorbone band was playing. My Lon and my Lis.
It's been so long since I've been to the Opera House and a long time since I've heard Lon and Lis play.
For those of you who haven't been here for very long, the Monticello Opera House is a place that I used to call home. I acted in some plays there. I loved it. And I haven't done that in a very long time and I do miss it and I dream of it all the time but...it feels like my time there is over.
I can't even imagine myself on those old boards.
It's where I met Kathleen and Jan and Jack and Judy and Denise and our Colin.
Oh. Our Colin.
But anyway, Lis booked this gig a year ago for the full moon in December and it was quite possibly the best experience I've ever had listening to Lon and Lis, although maybe not. It's always magic. Tonight though, seemed like it was magical beyond magic.
I love Lis so much. She is probably my best friend in the world and when it's just the two of us I feel like you feel with your best friend. We share so much in common. We love to cook and we love Florida and we love our husbands of many years and we love our martinis and we love long skirts and silk velvet and shiny eye-shadow and dirt and growing things and we hold hands and we kiss and, well...it's a romance like something Ms. Emily Dickinson would have. You know?
But sometimes, when she's onstage, I am struck dumb, kicked off the playground. And I feel like I can't even talk to her. Like...she's transcended something I can't even imagine. Sure, if I tried hard enough, I could make her incredibly beautiful ribbon flowers. Maybe. I could, perhaps, if I wanted to badly enough, write songs. Although let's face it- not the sort of songs she writes.
And tonight was one of those nights where I just had to keep my eyes downcast and say, "I can't talk to you." Because what she is able to do onstage is something I will never in this lifetime or any other be able to do.
And it occurred to me tonight that there are times when we close our eyes.
We close our eyes when we make love.
We close our eyes when we taste something so delicious that we have to focus all of our attention on the joy in our mouth.
We close our eyes when we push our babies out.
We close our eyes when we kiss our lovers, our children, when we smell our newborns, when we are so far into dancing that we can't bear to open them and when we do open our eyes, we are disoriented because we have gone so far deep into something that although our feet know where we are, our minds do not.
We close our eyes when we sing.
All night I kept noticing how when Lon and Lis sang, when they harmonized as only two people who have been making music together for forty years can harmonize, their eyes were closed and I closed my eyes and truly listened to their voices as they reached and dipped and crossed and blended and soared and sank and soared again and weaved together like braids, like birdsong and earthsong, like sunlight and moonlight, like rain and wind and water and wave and it was so beautiful that I shook with it.
And I told Lis on their break, "I can't talk to you," and she laughed, that peal of laughter from her angel-throat and it was all okay. And I got her a whiskey from the bar and took it to her. I would give her jewelry but I already have and she has given jewelry to me and we are wedded in gold and precious stones.
Mr. Moon and I are home now and as we got to Lloyd, we saw water on the pavement and it has rained here and is still raining, a tiny bit. I let my hair down, I took my own picture, I am still wearing lace and pearls and silver.
I close my eyes, I take you in.
I hear the music in my head, my heart, the rain as it drips from the ceiling of the sky.
What a night.