I embrace the here with open arms, this history my history,
not one of my ancestors – no grandfather and grandmother honeymoon in Cape May,
but the roots of this primitive ritual called Rock & Roll by which I still
live my life – an ageless back beat more firm in my consciousness than even the
rise and fall of tides, yet tided to the movement of waves the way the moon it,
part of some greater and more mysterious cause and effect that cannot be measured
with sextant or metronome, yet beats firmly in my heart, a syncopated symbiotic
rhythm I can’t live without.
I feel this place in my bones, a constant vibration that
gives meaning to each step I take, and I hear a hum in my ears like the
aftermath of a long night’s electrified music.
I am electrified, too, and need this place even though it is
not my place to need, its history tied to a history I experienced elsewhere
which has long vanished from those places I knew it best, and so I cling to
what is left here the way a man might cling to the remains of a sinking ship,
knowing that if I let go I am lost forever, knowing that rock & roll is in
the air I breathe, and without it, I ceased to exist, if not the rock &
roll that took place here, then music elsewhere to become what it became here,
and as with other such special places like the marker at Bethel, this place
retains some magic I need and ache for, inside and out, and so I drench myself
with this place the way a pilgrim might with holy water from some sacred
fountain, chanting lyrics like prayer, seeking a god or some greater spirit I
secretly suspect does not exist, yet must exist for me to exist, and in that is
the paradox.
What is lost cannot be found and yet, we cannot cease to
search for it, for our lives are bound up in this quest and like Odysseus, we
are always trying to find our way back home.
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