vernal equinox and a new moon . .spring has returned!
claire writes: "there is a you within you that you have yet to discover . . "
i say: discipline and self governence leads to liberation . . .dream big then fly . . .
a three hour conversation with claire from portland last night. the epiphany came when i admitted to her and myself that i often flit from one thing to the next . .projects, ideas, etc. . .just a superficial interface with these things that seem to matter so much at the time . .we talked about endangered languages, unrecorded oral histories, submurged desires, unrealized poetics . .little suicides by our own hands . .even though we're both successful in our chosen fields and we've developed an amazing tenacity in certain enterprises, when it comes to freeing the essential voice . .the mute button gets pushed. claire says: it's a lack of faith in ourselves. i say, it's wounded hope. either way .. it's a numbing silence.
i wept this morning when listening to
beth hart sing: "i'm still afraid to be alone, wish that full moon would follow me home, i leave a light on . .i ain't that bad, i'm just messed up . . i ain't that sad but i'm sad enough . .i want to love, i want to live, i don't know much about it, and i never did, i don't know what to do, can the damage be undone, i swore to god that i'd never be what i've become . .i leave a light on . ."
what have i become?
okay i've listened to jonatha brooke's new song "it matters now" from her new cd,
"back in the circus" about 93 times this morning ..it just gets better and better. the chorus is a lilting gem: "listen how my heart beats inside me, the story of a thousand better days, and i wish i could say anything to wash away the day, cause it won't matter when we're old . .it matters now . ."
gray snow on my spring front lawn. i don't want this. but it is what is.
i want the scent of lobelia and plum blossoms from a walk in toledo's ancient alcazar gardens, i want the bird trill of an april mad loon, i want the rush of sea salt air and the crest of a tall wave while i meander on some remote polynesian sandbar, i want the indecipherable irish melody i heard in the dingle penisula once while sitting on a sea cliff, i want the path through the forest of my childhood and the ten million red oak leaves falling on my shoulders, i want the paris skyline at twilight, or anytime, i want the twinge of italian cherry ice on my tongue, i want the summer of 1986 when all i wanted to hear was belinda carlisle singing "i get weak," i want the smell of freshly washed bedsheets on a slack summer clothesline, i want the little tingle from an amorous foot touching mine under a viennese teatable, i want the certainty of the blood coursing through my veins, saying go on laughing under this forever blue sky, you'll never die . . i want, i want . .
