Alleluia — a memory, a jolt

A few of us were in a car. Park St Bristol, listening to Leonard Cohen…

Hallelujah.

Old friends

No longer in touch.

An entirely different phase of life.

But it comes back as a reminder of one of those seminal moments, like —

the moment of death,

or of giving birth,

when nothing can argue with it as a — landmark memory.

A placeholder for a 'whole kind of experience' it's hard to describe. The verge of a kind of revelation that comes after all ordinary life and death is over and done with and the truth rises up to greet you… And you really had no idea until now… ( — until then, I mean…)

And I just watched something with the same backing track.

Praise rising. Strangely.

Alleluia.…Alleluia…Alleluia…Alleluia…

Maybe, what — 25 years ago, maybe?

The film reminded me of that.

(I cried. A bit.)

And — how a memory, just under a mile from where you were born feels, somehow, like you do at a funeral.

Confronted with the whole of existence,

and what it means to walk on from here.

Music can do that.

No, not just music —

that unexpected conversation was coming from a friend there for whom Leonard Cohen meant something powerful.

Extraordinary.

A friend I'd never heard truth from like that before. And his memories of his guitar, way back.

Why do these kinds of memories hit you

as if it was the actual end of the world?

(Not dystopia. Not crisis. I mean, more like face to face with God,

with everything flashing before you —

as if it was all about this, ultimately.)

And God smiling.

…alleluia…