We had no way to know it back then, but Van Morrison chronicled our lives. Not what they were, so much (does that even matter?) but what they felt like. Or what they feel like now, looking back on them. I’m an old man now. By any standard I would have applied then – back when I was setting standards – I’m an old man. And I’m satisfied. Bible says, finally, that no man is fully satisfied. Not this side of Jordan, anyway. We all want something else; something we can’t quite put our finger on; can’t quite name. That being said, I am as satisfied as any man can be, this side of Jordan. I don’t know of a man I’d trade places with. But there are some of his songs, handful of them, maybe, that can grab me by the back of the neck, stop me in my tracks and make me cry.
I don’t know why. I don’t know why. Maybe people’s souls all have keyholes and something like that – some song or poem or painting – might have all the right edges and points, be just the right key to open you right up.
If I want to remember who I really am, I listen to Van. That’s the depth of it. I can’t do it everyday. I’d lose track of time.