One day in the summer of 1997 I was shopping at what was then Changing Hands Bookstore on Mill Avenue in downtown Tempe. It was a split-level place. The new releases were on the ground level. Its lower level was the coolest used book bazaar in the whole town. Changing hands was one of those old places where the floor creaks just right when you walk through one of its corridors. I used to play guitar/viola duets with my friend Karen there back in the day. The gig payed $40 cash . . . . or $80 in books. Karen and I always went for the books. Every time.
Anyway . . . .
I'm standing in line waiting to pay for a book (I think it was The Cloud of Unknowing). It's hard to make sense of the many synchronicities that life brings our way, but there are moments when some numinous connection is made with some symbol, after which we emerge the better for the experience. Flags that wave themselves.
This was such an occasion.
Out of the corner of my left eye, I detected the green-pallored CD cover that you see above, one of many recordings for sale that summer on that rack at that store. It caught my attention. I leaned in to look. "La Llorona" by someone named Lhasa. I remember the moment.
I reached and plucked the shrink-wrapped gem from the rack (I just had to) and turned it around to read the liner notes in the back. I noticed a few things. First, every song had a Spanish title. Cool. Second, and crucial to this story, I instantly saw that the painting on the cover was a self portrait of the beautiful woman whose photograph looked out of the back view. I was in love. I gave in. This work of art called unto me in a way that seldom happens, and I followed my instinct, buying it that very day.
Not surprisingly, it turned out to be a real score when I got it home and listened to this strange chanteuse sing her beautiful songs of love and loss. Over the years, it has remained one of my favorite albums, the kind of record you give copies of away to the people you love.
Today, I'm sore.
I just heard that Lhasa died on 1 January 2010 after battling with breast cancer for twenty-one months. I had to share this story because not since Ray died has the death of an artist hit me so hard. It's hard for me to believe that someone who affected my life so deeply was cut down at the age of 37 like that.
Thank you Lhasa, for the beauty and the joy. It is with much sadness that I write.
Oh, How you will delight the angels.
Ó
.
Anyway . . . .
I'm standing in line waiting to pay for a book (I think it was The Cloud of Unknowing). It's hard to make sense of the many synchronicities that life brings our way, but there are moments when some numinous connection is made with some symbol, after which we emerge the better for the experience. Flags that wave themselves.
This was such an occasion.
Out of the corner of my left eye, I detected the green-pallored CD cover that you see above, one of many recordings for sale that summer on that rack at that store. It caught my attention. I leaned in to look. "La Llorona" by someone named Lhasa. I remember the moment.
Not surprisingly, it turned out to be a real score when I got it home and listened to this strange chanteuse sing her beautiful songs of love and loss. Over the years, it has remained one of my favorite albums, the kind of record you give copies of away to the people you love.
Today, I'm sore.
I just heard that Lhasa died on 1 January 2010 after battling with breast cancer for twenty-one months. I had to share this story because not since Ray died has the death of an artist hit me so hard. It's hard for me to believe that someone who affected my life so deeply was cut down at the age of 37 like that.
Thank you Lhasa, for the beauty and the joy. It is with much sadness that I write.
Oh, How you will delight the angels.
Ó
.
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