Blueberries

For years Dad and I picked blueberries in the Summertime. Four bushes in the backyard produced overwhelming buckets of blueberries. Often it was my sister and I out there in the summer sun picking and stretching, reaching past limbs inside, wary of wasps and maybe spiders. But after she'd gone to college, Dad sometimes came out there to help. Each bush had its own personality. There was the skinny bush: tall, scrawny, and didn't produce many berries at all but I always checked it thoroughly just in case. A fat bush on the end, usually having the juiciest berries, lump and dark, but it made me nervous to stick my hand past the exterior limbs into the dark interior, fearful that a spider might get angry or wasps come flying out at my face. But Dad said it was important to get all the berries, every single one. So I braved the prospect of getting stung or bitten, pulling out vines that were invading the bush's territory. The other two bushes were mostly non-descript, average height and thickness, average berries, average. Sometimes I could come inside with two buckets of berries, sometimes more or less.

A few times when my sister Beth had friends over they'd join us picking berries. One time a few of us started throwing berries at each other, until someone said that blueberry juice stains and the friend didn't want to get her shirt stained. Nonetheless, I still wanted to play and snuck a couple more berry throws in before they got mad at me and made me leave.

I also loved the washing of the berries. In the sunny outdoors their color seemed dusty, muted and faded, but when the water ran over their skins, bright colors leapt from the colander: shiny maroon, indigo, dark purple, midnight, and speckled blue. As their cloudy skins brighten, my tastebuds craved the bursting tartness of a just-turned ripe berry, and I'd pop one or two in my mouth before someone would catch me sneaking a little snack.

The camaraderie of working together, bonding with family doing the same task, sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter, was something that crept into my poetry. The reaching for the berry at the top of the tallest bush, tip-toed, leaning into the limbs, leaves in my face, I'd look up and be blinded by sunlight at the same time as I grasped the blueberry. This appeared in one of my poems, "Berry-Picking."

Creek Crawling

Beside my childhood home there is a small pond and beyond that is "the woods." It is not a very dense woods, certainly not a forest. I used to follow the creek inside for a long time, walking along the edge, crooked turns and dips. Sometimes I would take off my shoes and socks, tying the shoelaces together and shouldering them as I stepped into the water onto mossy stones and pebbly creek beds. I'd cross from one side of the creek to another side by stepping stones, but occasionally by straddling a log laying across the creek walls, then scooting slowly over the bark until I reached the other side. I was too scared to walk across, afraid that I'd slip and fall head first.

One Thanksgiving a cousin and I went hiking beside the creek. We'd left pretty early in the morning thinking we'd come back in time before dinner. But we became distracted and more interested in following the creek, getting to where we were going, finding out where it went. We weren't even hungry. It was an adventure. We weren't concerned about sharing our own stories about what was happening at home, or about school life. We were only interested in discovering the next turn of the creek or what was beyond the little grove of trees. Maybe it was a really sunny and warm day, just right for creek crawling. Maybe it was a need for a little freedom from everyone else, even ourselves, and hiking through sunlit oaks, pines, maples, birches, and ironwoods. Finding smooth colorful pebbles was like finding a pearl. Sometimes we stumbled upon rubbish, a boot protruding in a sandy creek or a rusty oil or soda can wasting away between vines and mossy roots.

Then we heard our names being called from far away. We didn't have watches on, so we didn't know how much time had passed. But we knew that our names being called meant we were in trouble. We'd gone too far, literally. We had followed the creek about a mile or two away from the house, definitely on someone else's property now. My father and my uncle both shouting our names, concerned, frustrated, and a little angry. We finally caught up with our fathers, and upon arriving back at the house, we were told we could not go into the woods anymore. We could not be trusted beyond the pond's embankment. We might would get lost.

Another creek I used to follow a lot was the one down below my Uncle Tommy's and Aunt Cathy's house. The house is surrounded by trees, and down a short path I found another creek I could follow. This one was bigger than the one at home, prettier moss growing, the sun shining brighter through the oak and pine trees, the sandy creeks seemed cleaner, and I found little flowers, muscles, turtles, and frogs here. It became a personal tradition to go down to the creek either before or after Thanksgiving dinner. After a while my youngest cousins were able to join me. At first my personal get-away seemed less my own, but after a brief interlude I enjoyed knowing others were interested in the same natural treasures.

I have not been in a creek in a long time, where I can get my toes wet and sandy, fingers in mossy embankments, digging for shells or smooth pebbles. I'll return one day this Summer, I'm sure.

Name-Calling

It was in middle school when much of the name-calling began. I never had quite fit in with my peers, but it was in fifth grade when that became even more pronounced. I did something at school that I had previously only done at home. I was in class and a boy -- I think his name was Jeff -- was sitting behind me kicking my seat. He was kicking it in that hypertension kind of way, a way to release pent-up energy, but this was not something I knew at the time. All I knew was this boy kept kicking my seat while we were taking a spelling test. I was trying to concentrate, but my nerves were shaken with his repetitive seat kicking. So I turned around and growled at him. I didn't growl loudly but a small deep guttural growl. I think my instinct told me to respond in this way instead of saying "stop it" because I knew we were not allowed to talk during the test. So I figured growling was not talking, right? But everyone heard me, not just the boy, and there was laughter and my face probably turning bright red. I don't remember if or how Ms. Tyner punished me for disrupting the class. Maybe she didn't because she knew I was about to get enough punishment from my peers. She just didn't know for how long.

This was the beginning of the DOG and UGLY years. Kids used a combination of Dog Ugly and calling me any kind of name they could use. There was even an acronym for DOG to be a more extensive insult, but I don't remember it. It was mostly boys who did this teasing and taunting, but the girls were bad enough in their own way: exclusivity. So when P.E. time came I often ended up playing with kids who were a year older or younger than me, kids who didn't know what happened in my classroom.

In seventh grade a new student came to Madison. His name was James and he became buddies with Roger. Roger had a vicious attitude, very bad ass and rebellious. He acted up a lot. James slid right into Roger's little circle of bad ass buddies when James snapped an attitude with me in American History class. He must've observed how others had been treating me and decided that he had to fit in and this was the way to do it. So he was vehement each time he "baaaah!" at me in the hallways, calling me a goat and making the loudest noises possible. No teacher ever seriously told him to stop. And other peers just smirked and laughed, amused at his antics.

One day, right after Ms. Stringer's American History class ended and most of the other students had left the trailer and were heading indoors to their lockers and to break, I called James over and said I needed to ask him a question. Since his buddies weren't around he didn't cock an attitude but he listened to me nicely ask, "Why do you make fun of me? Did I do something to you? What is it about me that makes you call me names?" And maybe the sad sincerity of my asking him these questions prevented him from being rude, but all he offered up as an answer was, "I don't know" while looking me straight in the face. I shook my head, lowering it, and he left. But the name-calling didn't stop after that. But I knew I had glimpsed for a brief moment that he sincerely didn't know why he did it, just that he felt he had to do it.

Since much of my middle and junior high school years was spent surviving constant name calling from my peers, I never made it a habit to do the same to others. I knew it hurt. I knew it was alienating.

Camp Wahi

I joined the Girl Scouts when I was in sixth grade, after meeting Stacy and her family. Her mother, nicknamed Smokey, was my troop's leader. Stacy's family was a late '80s version of the Brady Bunch: 3 brothers and 3 sisters, but the gender grouping was not as us/them as the Bradys. I remember one of our meetings at Smokey's house, all the girls piled on the floor in the living room, listening to the troop leader speak, and picking out the next badge we'd work towards as a group. I don't remember the troop meetings as much as I do the summers away to camp for weeks at a time.

  Camp Wahi. It felt like it was hundreds of miles away from home when Mom drove me there for the week. I rarely got homesick; I'd come home after being gone a couple of weeks and Dad would say, "You were so busy you never wrote a letter home." I wasn't like some girls, crying at night because they missed their mothers and fathers. I missed mine, but I also knew I would see them again in a week or two. They weren't gone; they were right where I left them.

I went to Camp Wahi three summers in a row: '89, '90, '91. Each Summer felt completely different. The girls were different, gone in a flash each year, not to return again the next summer. Two of the summers I stayed there I camped in the tent cabins. These housed four girls at a time, four beds, two on each side with an open space in between. You stored your suitcase and boxes and bags and books under your bed. You brought your own pillow, sheets, blankets. Mosquito spray. If you brought a book you never had time to read it, after being tired from hiking or crafting all day, swimming lessons, playing games or pranks with other campers in their tents. Every summer was different. Some were so filled with activity that I cannot remember them all in the blur of faces and fuzzy recollections.

One summer I met Anne. I remember her because her name was my middle name and when we discovered this we became instant friends. I was in her tent constantly, listening to her walkman, sharing stories, playing games, and looking at magazines. She told me a lot about her family. I listened to the stories, the mysteries and the mythical, but none of those remained all these years. I do remember her extra nipple though. She wore a one-piece swimsuit and whenever she met someone new she had to share her story, show them her third nipple: a faded, slightly raised area that never really formed fully. She was an interesting little soap opera, bouncing around, energetic, all-nighter to my night owl habits. Mornings were never good to us.

 The next summer there was Robin. She wasn't a camper like the rest of us, but a camp counselor in charge of a few cabin areas. She wasn't my section's camp counselor, but I saw her during some of the camp functions, in the mess hall, at the pool, all over the camp. She had short hair, an easy-going personality, always smiling, playful and fun. I remember the first day I saw her because I only saw her from behind and thought to myself, "what? A BOY here at Girl Scout camp?!" But then she turned around I realized her features were feminine, plus her smile was big and her eyes lit up when she talked with you. I don't remember much else about this summer... I think I was there for the off-camp camping trip session. Canoeing to the other side of the lake, setting up camp, tents, getting wood and tinder, campfire, s'mores. Hoot owls, star constellations, singing around the campfire. But Robin wasn't part of that session and was back at camp with the other girls for swim lessons, crafts, or some other Girl Scout activity. Maybe it was knots she instructed?

The third time I went to this camp I was a little older than most other campers, and the camp counselors I knew in this session reminded me of my sister. One of them was nicknamed Scottie. She had dark wavy hair she sometimes wore in pigtails. Remember, this is '88 or '89. I remember less about the friends and the camp counselors than I do about the activities. I found a raccoon pawprint, made a mold of it, and earned a badge in wildlife. Learned the names of trees and flowers in the area, and some other things. Might have created a book with various leaves in it, labeled with names, type of tree, etc. This session we were not in the tent cabins but in the log house, which I didn't like as much. It just didn't seem like camping to me. This was my last time to go to Camp Wahi, and my last time to be a Girl Scout. I was always a junior and never promoted to cadet, which I noticed on the Girl Scouts website isn't called that anymore.

 Maybe sometime I will drive out to Brandon, Mississippi, to see the camp. I think large parts of it would have been renovated since the years I ran around, hiking up and down small hills, swimming, making leather crafts or tie-dying t-shirts. My appreciation for nature was encouraged there.

Olivia Newton-John

Earlier today I recalled some of the albums given to me when I was in kindergarten or elementary school. I remembered Michael Jackson's Bad, Madonna's Like a Virgin, Whitney Houston, and Def Leppard, but I forgot Olivia Newton-John's Soul Kiss.

One weekend I was at my cousins' house in Raymond, MS. I don't remember where everyone else had disappeared. It is possible I stayed behind when others went to the grocery store to get hot chocolate, or my aunt went to pick up her youngest daughter. But I had my record with me, or maybe it was Aunt Jane's? It is possible that I discovered her album and played it loudly in her empty house, dancing, bouncing around on the long white couch. I marveled at my flexibility, dance moves that now would be interpreted as dramatic stretches and twirls. Way too young to know anything about the song's meaning, I was instead learning what movement was comfortable to me: this look over my shoulder, pretending to be seductive.

 "Oh, let's get physical, physical, I wanna get physical, let's get into physical. Let me hear your body talk, your body talk, let me hear your body talk."

Of course I was too young to really know what Olivia was singing about, but I had a small clue. This song would eventually be forgotten, but replaced by Grease's popular songs and duets. I just knew that Olivia portrayed herself as a seductress in her video, which meant anyone singing this song must act as a seductress. Being shy didn't allow me to pretend around others, but alone I could pretend to be mysterious, mythical, and grown-up.

 Of course, now, I cannot even remember how the lyrics were sung. I'd probably laugh if I heard "Physical" on the radio. Its certainly not a song I identify with anymore, if I ever did in that fantasy world I created when I heard it. After looking at Wikipedia, I have learned so much more about the song... Or even better, watch the video that MTV often cut off at the end in the early '80s. Some countries even banned the song from playing on the radio. "Physical" was popular in 1981 and 1982, but I doubt I knew it at that time and probably stumbled across it when I was around 10 or 12.

Dionne Warwick

Last night I went to Lexington with some friends and while we were talking we'd notice that all the songs seemed familiar but we couldn't remember who sung them or the titles. But one reminded me of Dionne Warwick and I recalled memories of listening to one of her albums. Maybe it was one my mom had already owned, but most likely I wanted it because it had the song "That's What Friends Are For." I remember listening to the record, Friends, over and over again, especially this song. It was uplifting, hopeful, and heartwarming.

"Keep smilin', keep shinin' Knowin' you can always count on me, for sure; That's what friends are for. For good times and bad times I'll be on your side forever more; That's what friends are for."

I believe this was the song that told me, when I was a little girl, exactly what a friend should be, and anything less wasn't truly a friend. I listened to this song right about the time when young girls realize that some friends are wishy-washy, two-face, hot/cold. Some friends acknowledge your friendship in the face of the world, while others keep your relationship in the shadows. Some suddenly betray you. Some defend you. And you would do anything for those who stand by your side, those you can trust and depend upon. You'd take their call at 3 a.m., listen to their crying and worries, tell them you'll help in any way that you can. That they are loved. I heard this song briefly last night in my memories in the noise and chatter, then again last night before falling asleep. A reminder of friendship, what was most important and what was insignificant, jealousies to put aside, and happiness and hopefulness to encourage and witness. Friends to love.

Gillian Welch

The first album I bought by Gillian Welch was Revival. I bought it in the used CD store in Oxford, MS, called Uncle Buck's Records. Since the days I lived in Oxford, MS, Uncle Buck's closed and Hot Dog Records opened for a few years before kicking the bucket, too. I loved the slow rocking rhythm of "Pass You By" and the way Gillian sang, her vocals saturating the air, pouring out like molasses, drawing out words to match the melody.

"Don't turn no head, don't catch no eye Just a wind on the road, gonna pass you by Don't come over here, Don't scream don't cry Just a wind on the road, gonna pass you by"

Sometime after I bought Revival, I saw that Gillian and David were coming to Oxford for a gig in Proud Larry's, a bar and restaurant just off the downtown square. This was before the soundtrack for O Brother, Where Art Thou? came out with Gillian singing "I'll Fly Away" with Alison Krauss. This was before she was well known, from what I could determine. The audience was full but not crammed, and the tiny stage was just enough for Gillian and David to play. I stood over to stage-right, near a speaker and the checker-paned windows looking out on the alley. The stage was only one step up, and if I had stood in the back I would not have been able to stare at their fingers on the guitars, banjos, and mandolins. I was fascinated and had forgotten my camera. She sang several songs I knew, and many I had not yet heard. Some days later, when I was dating someone for several months, I was given the CD Hell Among the Yearlings. The songs here were slower and more mellow than the ones on Revival. It took me a lot longer to like these songs, but eventually I did. My favorite song, played over and over in my car stereo when I went for a long drive to have time to myself, was "Tear My Stillhouse Down."

"Oh tell all your children That Hell ain't no dream 'Cause Satan he lives In my whiskey machine And in my time of dying I know where I'm bound So when I die tear my stillhouse down."

I just loved the way she sang every line of that song, powerful and regretful, mournful of the march drumming behind her last request of tearing the stillhouse down. "Don't leave no trace of the hiding place where we made that evil stuff" just bounces off your tongue; the poetry of the lyrics struck me. Some time later she and David came back to Oxford for the Double Decker Arts Festival in April. We sat with Organic Blue Sky Raspberry sodas in hand on the balcony of Square Books overlooking the stage and their performance. I don't remember if I had my camera with me this time, but I probably didn't take very many pictures after all. A few years later, on April 24, 2004, I came back to the Festival, making a special trip up from Jackson, MS, to see them perform again. A two year relationship had ended a year earlier and we were meeting to be cordial and try to maintain a friendship. But I disappeared a few times to enjoy the show and to take some pictures from just below the stage, all angled awkwardly. I wanted to stand but nearly all the audience had sat down to enjoy the music. Much later, after moving to Hattiesburg, MS, for graduate school at USM and settling into an empty apartment with scattered boxes everywhere waiting to be unpacked, I had Gillian's album Soul Journey playing "Lowlands" loudly.

"Oh I've been in the lowlands too long, Oh, I know, I know that I should go, And I've been in the lowlands too long"

It was the epitome of being happy to move into my first apartment, a place of my own. Music on constantly, Gillian singing about making a pallet on the floor or Miss Ohio. I read reviews that contradicted with my opinion of the album, criticizing the songs I liked most, and preferring the ones I liked least. I am waiting for Gillian and David to come to Kentucky so I can hear them in their best form, live.

"Ain’t one soul in the whole world knows my name Ain’t one soul in the whole world knows my name But I’ll see it by and by cause it’s written up in the sky Ain’t one soul in the whole world knows my name"

Sarah McLachlan

Earlier today I heard a song by Sarah McLachlan. There's so many memories tied to Sarah's music I cannot pick just one to write about, so I will write about several as I recall them now. When I was a junior in high school I had a close friend who was a freshman. He and I both loved Sarah's music and its largely him going on and on about her that made me become interested in her albums. So I spied the video for "Possession" on either VH1 or MTV one evening. I was won over. Sarah's intensity of staring into the camera as it filmed her singing the song, pretty much a head shot the entire time, her hair cascading around her. And when I commented on this to James, my freshman friend, he just sighed wistfully remembering the video. Watching the video again now, if it is the one I remembering seeing in 1993, there's not as many shots focused on her looking into the camera as I recall. Memory is interesting like that, extending the parts we liked most and abbreviating the parts we liked least. I also constantly played Sarah's album in my car, when I had a working cassette player in it. I recall driving on one of my favorite roads between the mall and the Barnett Reservoir, a curvy road that wasn't monitored too strictly by policemen but also didn't have any stops. Not a long road, just one good enough for a little while to get away from the busier traffic. I doubt I would enjoy it now as the area is getting swamped with chain stores and office parks. "Adia" was another song by Sarah McLachlan which wrapped me up into all the lyrics and the way she sang the following:

’Cause we are born innocent. Believe me Adia, we are still innocent. It's easy, we all falter. Does it matter?

I would sing this to myself all the time. Constantly. I cannot sing as high as Sarah, that's for sure, but I imagined I could just enough. At least I didn't torture anyone with my singing. I remember watching a VH1 special in which Sarah's being interviewed and she was asked what the song was about. She mentions her grandmother and their relationship. Another memory deals with "Angel." I am attending the University of Mississippi after transferring from community college. The dorm I am staying in is a co-ed dorm, or as close to one you might find in Mississippi. The dormitory had two wings, one wing was male, the other female, and both having three floors. This dorm was mostly occupied by graduate, non-traditional, and exchange students. I was working and living there as a resident adviser (RA). After a while I started dating someone, and the opportunity arose the following summer for us to go with a friend to Nashville to Lilith Fair. I was excited because Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant, Liz Phair, Bonnie Raitt, and others were going to be there performing. I bought us tickets to go. It was a great show, even if we were sitting on the hillside and not in the stadium seats close to the stage. I could see a tiny Sarah standing center stage, flowy feminine and in blues and purples. The audience was mostly women, some varying kinds of couples here and there. We stood there together, watching and listening, embraced in a hug, my back to his chest. Later, there were some darker moments during that concert when I was not too pleased with him: his derogatory comments about a car full of women at the gas station, the under-his-breath comment about the lesbian couple I asked to take our picture for us. This was one of the many times I realized our personalities clashed extremely, and it only intensified as the summer months pushed forward till I finally broke it off with a little mental and emotional strength support from a university counselor at the wellness center.

In the arms of an angel Fly away from here From this dark cold hotel room And the endlessness that you fear You are pulled from the wreckage Of your silent reverie You’re in the arms of the angel May you find some comfort there

A few memories are associated with "I Will Remember You," but I will only write this one. After Adam and I broke up I listened to the song often because I had learned a lot from that brief relationship. We were in different stages of our lives looking for different things in a relationship. It ended abruptly, but some time after that we became friends again, catching up with each other sporadically. I listened the this song and a lot of Matchbox Twenty after we broke up to deal with the emotions and frustrations I sunk myself into for a time.

I will remember you Will you remember me? Don’t let your life pass you by Weep not for the memories

Morrissey

First time I heard Morrissey it was during a tornado warning. Sitting cross-legged in the hallway for what seemed like two hours before we reported back to our third-period classrooms, I listened to Jordan sing "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get." Enthralled by his voice rolling out the lyrics, I assumed he was composing a song on the spot.

The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time

He leaned against the wall behind him, stretched his legs in front of him and stared into empty space as the melody moved forth. When he realized I was facing him, listening intently, he turned his whole torso towards me to look square into my eyes as he sang. He had a charismatic way about him, locking me into an intense admiration in spite of myself.

I am now a central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not.
Yeah, I've made up your mind.

He was exotic in the way he expressed himself, nonchalantly but masked passion in his eyes. Maybe it was the marijuana or whatever other drug he was experiencing those months. Maybe it was my sheltered self craving something wild and unleashed, carefree and indifferent to societal expectations. Maybe it was his manic-depressive rollercoaster colliding with intellectual boredom. Maybe his word-playfulness before crashing into mental blocks. Maybe it was attention given, and with-held, when I craved it.

Beware! I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges.
When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can't pay.
Take the easy way
And give in.

After having memorized the lyrics Jordan had sung in the dim school hallway full of other teenagers waiting out the tornado warning, I searched the lyrics on the internet. Just a bit disappointed that they were not written by him, but not dismayed for too long before buying that CD, Vauxhal and I, in a music store in the mall. I listened to the CD nonstop for weeks afterwards, falling in love with each of the songs one by one. I loved Morrissey's voice, but I also loved the memory of someone singing the lyrics while staring deep into my eyes, making my heart creep into my throat, my heartbeat faster, my fingers twisting the corner of my shirt into a knot, all my nerves quaking with teenage angst and infatuation.

U2

"I wanna run, I want to hide. I wanna tear down the walls That hold me inside. I wanna reach out And touch the flame, Where the streets have no name."

There are numerous songs by U2 which move me completely from one emotion to another. I can only speculate that the first song I heard by U2 must have been "Where the Streets Have No Name." Maybe it while my sister played her The Joshua Tree cassette and I thought, "Wow, I really like that song!" Or was I watching MTV, saw the video for the song, U2 performing live and unscheduled on the roof of a liquor store in LA? It is entirely possible, because who wouldn't fall in love with a band who'd dare record a live show in a "bad" area of Los Angeles without LAPD approval? It was free music for the people. All their concerts were sold out, their popularity rising every second. During my freshman year of college I wrote a paper on the lyrics for "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." I analyzed one of my all-time favorite songs by my all-time favorite band. It is definitely a song about searching for the spiritual, something to really put one's faith into, to believe, to find oneself able to believe.

"I have spoke with the tongue of angels I have held the hand of a devil. It was warm in the night; I was cold as a stone. But I still haven't found What I'm looking for. But I still haven't found What I'm looking for."

And then this ideal world, this place where everyone is one, all together, joined and bonded, broken free of color.

"I believe in the Kingdom Come, Then all the colours will bleed into one, Bleed into one. But yes, I'm still running."

When I was in 8th or 9th grade, around 15 or 16 years old, I became obsessed with the lyrics of U2 songs. I had borrowed my sister's tapes and had bought one or two of my own by now, so I had The Joshua Tree, Boy, War, The Unforgettable Fire, and Rattle and Hum. I even had a single, Wide Awake in America. I transcribed the lyrics by hand, listening, then pausing the tape cassette. I played the songs over and over again, working hard to get the right words, to make sense of the lyrics and discover the secret of why I treasured these songs. In the process I learned every single song completely. For my ninth grade English class, I turned in a biography on the band's musical career to Coach Thompson. I even drew the Boy album cover and included that as the paper's cover. I finally found a way to see them in concert. I managed to snag a couple tickets for a Cleveland, Ohio, concert, but ended up selling one of the tickets when I didn't have anyone to go with me. So I rented a car, drove to Cleveland through December snow and found my hotel, a taxi service, and a ride to the concert. Many other hotel patrons were going to the concert, and I overheard after-parties, bars, clubs to go to afterwards. I found my seat, high on the left side of the stage, a complete view of the floor and performance, lights and action. The opening act was good, but I waited through it patiently. Then the lightshow began, Bono ran out on the stage, a half-oval diving into the ground floor audience. The first song was "City of Blinding Lights," a song I recently began to love. This was the setlist for the concert. Throughout the whole show, there were snippets of Beatles' songs, too. It was perfection. I was in Heaven. This day, December 10th, 2005, was marked down on my calendar forever.