There’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.
I sat in my office the other day listening to Kris Kristofferson’s country standard. It wasn’t even a Sunday, as would presumably be the case. It was a Saturday, and I had to be there for an event that took up all of the good hours. But a touch of melancholy about the afternoon—pale, lazy, mute—gave me a hankering to hear him. His version of the song is the best, though his voice is not that of Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson.
Still, Kris penned it, and he lived it, and what he meant comes through strongest when he sings it. You know what he’s saying when he speaks of the day’s innocence—witnessing the pleasures of those who have a place—playing, worshipping, cooking, belonging to each other when all the while he stands outside their inside—indeed, stands perpetually outside any inside. [Read more…]