If I were stranded on a deserted island for the rest of my life, I would want my Greg Laswell CDs with me. As a matter of fact, I would make a sincere effort to have Greg himself with me. It would be terrific. We would hang out under a low palm’s shade or in dark beach caves, writing songs together that were brilliant. Everyday he would sing our words back to me with his tender, shipwrecked voice.
Ladies love Laswell. Back on the mainland, they would buzz with heartbreak, deploying relentless rescue parties and fantasizing about his ever-growing facial hair.
Because he is singing in my ear all the time, I momentarily considered editing my “FB profile information” to read that I was “In a Relationship with” Greg Laswell. But then I found out that he would have to approve it, so that is going to slow us down a little bit. I settled for sending him a “Friend Request,” and inasmuch as his publicist clicked “Accept,” I think we are that much closer to song island.
(Clearly, he’s been expecting me.)
I have felt like a songwriter lately. Composing thirty “verses” in thirty days is more difficult than it looks, and I am grateful for the challenge, because it has pushed me hard and was good practice. Also, it was dear to have a readership, so I wanted to end this NYC photo essay, this summer song, with a melody. The perfectly-chosen song is always a lovely way to take one’s leave, don’t you think?
The ideal song for this moment is one of Greg’s, of course—called Sweet Dream. It is short. I searched for a youtube video of it to play for you (see below), and in a few of the lower-quality versions Greg explains that his fans usually complain about the song’s brevity. They enjoy it and want to hear more. He says that he wrote the first verse and the chorus and then just stopped. Every word he wrote after that seemed to cheapen what he had written before. And wouldn’t it be nice, he says, if people had the courage to end conversations when they had nothing more to say? Wouldn’t it be nice if they knew when to stop?
Wouldn’t it be, indeed.
That Greg. He makes me want to bite my pencil in half and let him do all the writing from now on.
Which is not to suggest that I have nothing more to say (not true at all), but this Manhattan song was to be of a certain length and have a certain quality. I do not want to cheapen what I have written before, just because I am trying to keep going with the lyrics. It is time to stop singing and get on a plane.
In fact, I am ending this journal one day earlier than I had planned, because—like Mary Poppins—I can sense the west wind. Leaves are rustling on the sidewalk.
I have told you about the tenacious monkey-grip of my dreams, so I understand what Greg says next. His other comment is that brevity is the nature of dreams. They are short. I think he is implying that this elusive quality is the very thing that makes dreaming a delight. Dreams want to cling to us in the morning. We find ourselves clinging to them. We love them so, because we can’t keep them. Even the sweetest ones fade by breakfast.
Perhaps our days are the prose, and our dreams are the poems. Poems and dreams and songs weren’t meant to be long. It is because they are brief that we should be trying hard to make them beautiful.
Thank you for listening to me sing July.
You write the 31st verse.