There’s this moment when Maggie Rogers lets out the first note of Fallingwater during her SNL performance that opens something in me. It’s not just her voice, it’s how her whole body inhabits the sound like it can barely contain its force. A bullet about to blast, but instead she somehow carefully but effortlessly turns the energy into a bursting blossom, opening all at once in the brief space of that single note.
She is laid bare, and so I am laid bare. Her power exposed and so my power is exposed. I feel free in a way I’ve never felt before. I want to inhabit that force in myself, completely and joyfully. To find my note and let it burst.
There’s this moment when Clarke comes to say goodbye to Lexa, maybe for the last time. Lexa is, as always, trying to keep herself contained, safe from the dangers of feeling. Clarke is, as always, doing her best to be the leader her people need at the expense of her own needs, her own joy. The wall between them holds for awhile—until they touch, until Clarke breaks. Her face changes, barely but completely. Her eyes fill with the sadness of seeing a glimpse of a future that can never be possible.
Clarke’s face holds a universe of devastating longing, triggering a delicious and deep longing in me. My body fills with the memory of my own moments in the darkness, when beauty and endings are all tangled together.
There’s this moment when the first bar of Sister Janet rolls out when I can feel the pulse of the universe, when God is sitting next to me and she has her head back, smiling at all the ways her creation surprises her. Not long after there’s another moment when the chorus flows like the ocean tide, vast and predictable but still utterly mysterious. When Tori moves up the keys, the world is young again, green, the air clear and full of life.
She time travels via piano, and I can see the whole history of my being. My past lives full of wonder and sorrow, my future as unbounded light and joy. I know (again and briefly) that I contain multitudes. And so do you.
Imagine Me & You
There’s this moment after Rachel and Luce spend an evening together alone, and they’re saying good night. Instinctively, Rachel leans in to kiss Luce, even though she has a husband who is lovely and who she loves. But she can’t help it. It’s like gravity, innate and unstoppable. Then a car drives by, its lights exposing the secret moment, and Rachel quickly pulls away before they touch, wrenching me out of sweet expectation into gasping disappointment.
My body tingles as every cell remembers the terrible and beautiful feeling of what it’s like to fall in love with someone I’m not supposed to. I want to hold onto the unrealized desire, to live in that moment of unquenched anticipation forever.
I think the hardest thing about being a fan is the falling in love. Because I do—I fall hard and I fall completely. I do whatever I can to stay close to these moments.
I rewatch, relisten. I study the scenes before to create a timeline of the buildup, and the scenes after to experience the power of the aftermath.
I listen intently to the other songs to discover just exactly why this particular melody or beat or progression moves me so much. I want to uncover every detail, soak in every movement. I want to know those moments deeply, get inside them, hold open the vast space they create inside me.
I stay up at night to keep these moments close, and the lack of sleep is okay because the delirium of the infatuation carries me through the day. My wife, God bless her, allows me these extramarital affairs and patiently endures my describing what these moments do to me.
It’s embarrassing, really, and I never want it to end. I want to distill these moments, steep them in mason jars and drink up their power and warmth and mystery whenever I need them.