And you give that permission by being that person. People will return it to you a hundred fold. And even if they don't, life goes on, bra. La la how the life goes on.
PERSONAL NEWS:
Jim is fine, though limited in his ability to get out. And I'm figuring out how to be old. I just turned 73. My life is simpler now. It's groceries, cleaning, cooking for us and for friends. I still maintain a good pace in my songwriting by virtue off the Jack Hardy Songwriter Exchange, though I don't always hit the "new song a week" mark. One of those songs, "Fear," will be debuted publicly at the Actors Temple for a fundraiser. It was our show, "The Big Voice: God or Merman?", that turned it into an Off-Broadway house. More about that soon.
The Songwriter Exchange did a free garden concert this year and it was so good. Actual songwriters with interesting and unique songs playing in that outdoor setting in the round, three at a time. Lucky for us, it was taped by Richard Cuccaro and he gave me the footage. So I combined that with a few shows from Gavin's iPhone and made video with captions. It's my song "Texan All The Way," which takes friendly pokes but accepts a few too.
The YouTube link to TEXAN ALL THE WAY: https://youtu.be/DsRm4Ccv5_8?si=fGJGnB5gZ60yx-OJ
We're all human and if we are given permission to love, we will do it.
You may say I'm a dreamer.
Here is a diary entry that shows you my state of mind these days.
SUN AUG 9 2026
Last night, Gavin and I debuted our version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” in front of a packed crowd, without having rehearsed it beforehand.
We announced that it was the first time we were going to do it in front of an audience, and also that it would be the first time we would be doing it for each other. Gavin is very meticulous in the parts he creates for the songs. So we always rehearse first to make sure of our parts. This time he recorded the guitar part and sent it.
I memorized the words by drilling the song over and over. There’s a beautiful acoustic version that George did on the Anthology, exactly the approach Gavin created in his guitar work. I got so used to it that when I went back to listen to the original very heavy blues rock Beatles track on the White Album, I was startled at how loud it was. That hammering piano note. It felt wrong.
So I was ready for this. Gavin started the guitar part—his Telecaster hooked up to the tiny amp and speaker. I almost forgot the first line.
But I stepped off the cliff, hoping the words would magically appear to me, and they did.
“I look at you all.”
Weird thing about this song. While singing along to the track, it started to affect me on a more profound level than I expected. There were times when I stood on a subway platform with tears streaming down my face.
“See the love there that’s sleeping.”
I did not have the camera running. I meant to. I even got out the stand for the camera, but I did not turn it on—or, rather, I think I forgot. Then, in the middle of the first or second song, when a bride and groom swept through, resplendent in black and white trailed by two guys in suits with video cameras, I reached out for my phone and it wasn’t there.
That’s when I decided to do nothing about it. Just stay in the moment. Adding the camera can’t help but affect your performance. That’s fine for songs we’ve done a thousand times. But for this moment. No.
All the words were right there. I think I stumbled on the second line, like arrived at it late, but found the right words and from that point on, it was as memorable and comfortable in my mind as if I’d been singing it for years.
I was able to relax and just mean the words.
From the very first—"I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping, while my guitar gently weeps"—I saw everyone come to a standstill. The park was crowded. All of the seats were taken and there were some people who were standing around. As soon as we started to sing "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," everything came to an absolute stillness. Maybe it's the sorrow in his song: "The love there that's sleeping." And I love the casualness of the next line: "I look at the floor and it needs sweeping." It's like, that's daily life. You know, you got to start small. And that's the message I tell the people when we're standing around in the circle in the mosaic: Live a life of redemptive nonviolence and justice and peace and you will pass it on to everyone around you. Just be that.
"I look at you all." And then I saw myself as the singer saying that honestly to those people. "I look at you all. I see the love there that’s sleeping." What it felt like to look into the eyes of the people when they really connected to the music—the yearning for love was profound.
A connection that I don't recall having found in any other song exactly this way. It's a universal lamentation.
All through this song, I mean from the very beginning, it's about weeping. And he's weeping through his guitar. It's right there in the music. He's weeping for us. Giving us space to mourn what we think we could have been or what we think we still can be as a human race. We have all the power at our fingertips. It's the thing me and Georgie have in common. My songs also make people weep.
And the people just so responded. I mean, it/we were casting a spell. ("Imagine" also does that.)
We got to the end of the song. I was caught up in remembering the words. As a performer, I worried if I stumbled over the words, then the whole thing would come to a halt. (It wouldn't.)
I managed to make it through, the spell was unbroken. A moment passed before everybody gave us a big applause.
I grinned and said in my Gomer Pyle accent, "We made it all the way from the first note to the last."
But looking back, at the very end that song, the last phrase I repeated was, "I look at you all. I look at you all."
And that's what made me cry.
"I look at you all."
