Once, there was a love song. Glen Hansard wrote the musical, performed in the film, and has died in a motorbike accident this week. My heart froze. His music, what a gift he gave, he was. The covers now pouring out of Falling, Slowly, on Instagram in tribute. See the first tribute I came across, which was how I found out, by Garron Noone @garron_music.
Once, in Valencian days of old, I went on a motorbike ride, no helmet, several vodka-fantas to the wind, my arms tight around a crush taking me for a spin, trying to counterbalance (pretty dangerous, I learned fast to lean in!) as we zoomed horizontally round corners at break-neck speed. My best friend was furious. In part at the risk, in part because he observed I never held him like that when on the back of his scooter.
Once does that to you. Takes you on a trip down memory lane of all the lovers that could have been, but weren't, because girl-code, or friend-code, won out.
I had been following Hansard's music for years, ever since the Commitments came out at sixth form, and I would have the music on play, reading my way through the world of Roddy Doyle thanks to my then boyfriend. But there was something about the timing of this film too. The young mother whose husband is working overseas and befriends a busker nursing a broken heart. She brings joy, a lightness, a gentle friendship and a musical partnership develops, but ultimately she stays with her husband.
In a funny old way it is the story of this blog. The fleeting moment of creative connection with a young musician who gifted me a CD of his love songs (not about me, I hasten to add, but I still blushed). The joy of feeling plugged in to that energy, and the need to find an outlet for my own spark, before risking a fire that would burn down my own home, well, that's what led me into the arms of circus.
And in the period of transition, closing one door, to open the next, Once, the Musical came to the West End. I was feeling very raw at the time and found healing through the story and the music. That's the power of the arts. I was not alone. Later I went back with my brother and his wife for an encore, and we ended up on stage at the bar, fully immersed.
I'd just whipped out my phone to search out a couple of lunatic affirmations I had saved on Instagram when I was caught out by the notice of Hansard's death. The news ripped away the scrolling. And then this week, I found myself wondering at all the other people, the histories and herstories, Glen Hansard's music has touched over the years. My daughter and I were lying on the grass in a clearing on the Common gazing up at the extraordinarily low and large Buck Moon, moving into Aquarius, a herald of upheaval, a jolt for old shapes to give way to new ones. We reminisced about our sailing days when we would lie on the trampoline at the bow of La Cigale and look up at Orion's Belt on ocean crossings. Here now, we could make out the constellation Lyra in the night sky, the one where Orpheus' harp meets aerial hoop.
A question formed, in the words of Mary Oliver. I asked my daughter, dear one,
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Her answer is hers to keep. Mine is to share: I'm going to write my heart out...
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