"Where the Streets Have No Name" there may be "stuff"

Saying that life is at times so very poetic seems…well, so very un-poetic. It’s as if declaring the idea ruins the rhythm and beauty of the notion. My high school English teacher always used to say, “Poetry is written to be sung.” But looking at a Vermeer or Picasso makes me also think that poetry was intended to be painted. When words and pictures and life all converge in providential moments, poetry happens. That’s not what we read on bumper stickers. Bumper sticker wisdom says, “”Stuff’ happens!”
My husband and I would agree, especially if you ask us about our last anniversary.
On our last anniversary “stuff” happened. We were in Ireland. We spent nine days there altogether, but our anniversary date was the worst day of the entire trip. Yes, the worst! And it was all because, as the Irish band U2 sang in one of our favorite songs, “the streets have no name.” Driving around the island in a rental car, gave us an epiphany about that song. After countless futile attempts to locate purported street addresses, we concluded “So this was what Bono was talking about!” We laughed. But that was still before “stuff” happened.
According to Wikipedia, the lyrics of Where the Streets Have No Name were “inspired by a story that Bono heard about the streets of Belfast, Northern Ireland, where a person’s religion and income are evident by the street they live on.” Bono said, “I was trying to sketch a location, maybe a spiritual location, maybe a romantic location. I was trying to sketch a feeling.”
In fact, before going to Ireland, I’d always thought the words were talking about Heaven. But on our anniversary, my husband and I got in a fight precisely because we couldn’t find any street names in Dublin, and we got lost. When we finally found our desired destination (the National Gallery) we were still smoldering in our “stuff,” so we toured it separately. Spiritual location? Something close to hell. Romantic location? Uh…no. Feeling? Only frustration.
Thankfully, “stuff” turns into poetry. There’s more to this story, just like there’s more to the song:
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
We’re still building
Then burning down love
Burning down love
And I go there
I go there with you
It’s all I can do
That day, my husband and I did some building and some burning, but at the end of the day we still wanted to “go there.” And isn’t that the point – wanting to still “go there” after “stuff” happens? How poetic is that?
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