The house is clean—sort of.
The family is away. The sky has
clouded over. A bowl of egg drop
soup. A glass of grape juice. The computer is on. What else to do? Find that right chord on YouTube. Lindsey Buckingham is as good as anyone
gets. Always good, but better with age,
now that he’s living on castaway dreams, like a shooting star in the night
caught only by a few eyes.
It’s probably as hard to know you’re as solid after fame as
you were when the world thought you were everything as it is to know you had
what it takes but never did much. Still,
I’d rather be like Allen Ginsberg than like Emily Dickenson—to know your words,
notes, lines meant something before entering the grave.
But it is what it is:
thousands, perhaps millions crafting messages in the middle of the
night.
There are things said right: the right line, the right
rhythm, the right stroke, the right holding back, the right letting go.
For the Lindsey Buckinghams in every medium, artists known and
unknown—may they always, forever, get under the skin, even if they have an
audience of one.
