It was the late winter of 1983 when David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ made its way into the musical airwaves, and I know that because I’d just been hired for a job at which on a Friday afternoon a couple of months down the road my life would be interceded by a slice of magic so gigantic that I find myself still reverberating like a crazed monkey screaming off a steep precipice 43 years down the road.
It was The Drug and Alcohol Resource Program in Stoneham, Massachusetts, there were five of us, and the guy who’d been hired as the therapist, a totally straight nice young man, looked at me with a big smile one day while we were painting and arranging and getting ready to open the doors to teenagers and said, “The serious moonlight.” Yeah – the serious moonlight. What was better than that in 1983.
A week or so later, it was a Friday afternoon, the boss Maggie had a pal of hers, a Methadone counselor in the Brighton neighborhood of Boston, come up to give us a training on how to talk with junior high kids about smoking pot. At least that’s the training my four co-workers received. But not me.
It’s a longer story, hovering entirely within the land of mystical, for another day. Fromamountainbench is always on watch for the good stuff. I’ll just say now that this life of mine took a one-eighty the next day, and it’s not a stretch to say I’ve been trembling like a flower – always under the good old serious moonlight – since. Falling into the arms – the serious arms – of the world.
It’s reverence when I tag the songs along with the chatter. Here:
from a mountain bench 
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