Wednesday, December 24, 2008

And still I sing

Well Buddy, you've left me in quite a mess. I've been trying for hours to pull myself together to no avail.

I just sit. and stare.

like an idiot.

My sweet friend. You represent the vast knowledge of music that I will never know. Even if I spent the rest of my life accumulating I would never reach your level of sainthood.

But that wasn't what you and I were about, huh? It wasn't about knowledge or ability or perfection (even though it was, indeed, all these things) we were the music. much bigger than you and I.

I'll never forget the countless moments. Me propped up on the arm of your couch, you at the keyboard. When the genius was creeping in, your breathing would grow heavy, I would start to grin, and then all at once we were on fire.

Oh, how you could play my friend.

Then we would just talk and talk, and laugh. damn.

I hope you know how I have wept for you. I honestly couldn't get enough of you. So to just leave like you did was a little selfish. I don't know who I should blame for that, but anyway...
I will love you forever. Fly on.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

If only I were a bird.

Well I'm doing my very best.
I'm so proud that you're getting to have such a WONDERFUL experience, and for such a long stay. However, I can't help but let my selfish, lonely heart bruise a little.

And I quote, "There are millions of peoples here, but he only speaks of you."
These are the words I will live by until your sweet return.

Then, I quote," Do you know how much I miss you?" "No," I said, "how much?"
"The whooooole world."

And these are the words that will continue to knock the wind right out of me.

I am a slane man. If ever I was a trophy, I am perched in your glass case.

Pin me down against it all.
I'll cash out, I'll say uncle.
Lay it all on the line.
Bet my weight in gold.
Stake your claim in that.

And why must you employ
Such a sneak attack
To cripple me so?
You like to win,
I know.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Taken Down

There's one thing you can always count on when it comes to time. 
It will always keep going.
When you realize this you will also understand how small you're stake in things really is.

I love to compare this notion to the image of me fishing as a child. I was never content to fish in one spot too long. My dad was always saying in a loud whisper, "just let it sit there for a minute! The fish will bite if you'll be patient."
I never understood why he was always whispering while fishing... as if fish have ears. So there I'd be, staring down my bobber, until that moment when I thought it had been taken down. I would jerk my fishing pole as hard as I could, flinging my bobber, hook, line, sinker, and that poor little cricket up over the boat into the distance behind me... only to realize that my vision had been lost in the ripples caused by that sweet summer breeze. I was too quick on the draw.
Before long, we were on the move. My dad was just as impatient as I was. And it was 
then that I wanted to be still! We would glide past COUNTLESS perfect spots. I'd frantically cast out ahead of the boat, only to catch up to and then pass my bobber in seconds. Stretching out over the back of the boat, I would let it sit until the boat was dragging it along then I would find another perfect spot in the distance and cast again.

One always wants what one can't have. 

Time is like that boat, dragging us along. But it has taken me to a wonderful place in my life. I am very happy at the moment, and I have time to thank for that.

I still look out into the distance, but I've not been looking back, trying to remember old "perfect spots," in quite some time. ...weeks even! 

I am so thankful for the time I get to spend every day being loved and knowing that I am in a very sweet sort of love. I never expected it to happen at all much less with such timing. But there it is, all the same.

There you are
Standing in this one time
this one place.
Here I am 
Jealous of the sun
who warms your face.

But when the night comes
You are all mine
you give the stars
and fireflies
reason to shine.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The Beginning

I've decided to begin a "captain's log."

This way, if something horrific ever happens, there will be a trace of me floating around this world wide web.

I love to write, so this whole "day 1, day 2" thing should come as second nature.

There should be a beginning. I know, I know, this is the beginning, but I want there to be a definite start.

I think I'll start with the exposition of my life. That way, you (the reader) and I (the tragic hero) will have been properly introduced.

I'm from the country. I loved to play in the dirt; it was my favorite thing when i was little. I don't mean making mud pies or burying toys. I would strip down to nothing and sit in the finest, most powdery, spot I could find, and do my best to become a part of dirt I so enjoyed. Hours were spent sifting it through my fingers; clouding it up around me as if it were a magic dust. I transgressed rather effortlessly from dirt to song.

My earliest memory of music plays out like most- I was in church. It was the little stone church down the road from our house. My mother would take me down there so the eldery people, great aunts and uncles could gush over me. They would stand me up on a stool and I would sing "this little light of mine" while Mrs. Stroud, an ancient christian woman, played the piano.

Where my memory starts to differ from most is in the fact that I don't just remember singing that song. I remember the way everyone reacted, and the admiration that crept up from the pews. It bit me; not the holy spirit, but the energy of it all. I didn't know what it was at the time, but I would learn, over time, that, if the song was right-if I was doing my part, I could control the emotions of an entire room. 
    So the evolution of me continued. I spent most of my days, as a kid, outside. I spent countless hours trying to will myself to fly, making up potions, and building forts in the woods. All the while singing to myself and the the hills around our little farm. I would pretend that all the trees choking the hillsides were my audience, and the hillsides my stadium. I would echo up and over the sea of leaves and they would throw my songs back at me. It was a lovely marriage. At one point I misunderstood the physics of sound waves and I took their definition quite literally. I assumed that if I could hear a plane flying by, then surely whomever was riding in them would hear me singing back. For some reason I was sure Reba McEntire was aboard any one of those passing airplanes. Whenever I heard one coming I would stop whatever I was doing and run to the nearest corner post along the barbed wire fence, scramble to the top, and sing. Boy did I sing. I was certain that if she only  heard a note or two she would DEMAND the pilot land her plane in the field beside my house. She never did. 

Time after time, stage after stage, I grew up singing to whomever would listen. And still I sing... because they're still listening.