When will our eyes meet?

Warning: TOTALLY hokey music alert!

This morning I woke up with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" (aka "when will I hold you again") running through my head.

I know, I know...

(I don't even dare tell you the little ditty that I couldn't ditch while showering on Tuesday.)

I'm not sure where either of them came from, but I can at least make some kind of a connection for today's version.

Last night's class centered around the "irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired" (as Frost put it.) We are born with the longing for completion as a central part of our being.

"Weekend in New England" was popular when I was a teenybopper, with no experience of love. I'd never had a boyfriend, and had no idea of what the pain of separation felt like.

But something in my soul sang along with this song and knew it to be true. I felt the longing, the yearning, the loss. And the ache it created in my heart was somehow also a pleasure.

Here are the lyrics, for your delectation.

Last night I waved goodbye
Now it seems years
I'm back in the city
Where nothing is clear
But thoughts of me holding you
Bringing us near
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?

Time in New England
Took me away
To long, rocky beaches
And you by the bay
We started a story
Whose end must now wait
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?

I feel the change coming
I feel the wind blow
I feel brave and daring
I feel my blood flow

With you, I could bring out
All the love that I have
With you, there's a heaven
So earth ain't so bad
And tell me

When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you . . .
again?

Naked confession time: sometimes I channel Dolly Parton. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. The occasional taste of Barry Manilow gives me the same kind of trashy pleasure that Spam does.

There; I've said it.

Once in a while, I actually eat spam.

And I like it.