Was thinking a lot about “art” this week, specifically my place in it. As a prose writer, songwriter, performer, poet, whatever, the older I get and the more serious I take this art stuff the more I worry about my contributions, what they mean, if they’re worthwhile, and, more importantly, is the source of that art (memories, the past, shades of darker colors…) worth mining from? worth distilling? So, anyway, I wrote a prose poem/maybe song about such things:
If you listen close there are songs that come and go like whispers on the wind. They send and recede with the faintest melody to the wellspring. To our hearts. And though I’ve tried and try to fight they always break me apart. With letters strung together we sing what lives inside. The timbre of our voices rise and fall in time with the heart-chord-thrum of life, and death, and love. Now, imagine if you can a memory you have still as vivid as when you lived it. Hold it up. Let it all come back. Watch the light bend and refract. Now pretend you choose to give it up, and you may never get it back: would it hold it’s shape and integrity? Or would it stand as an empty poem for your punk rock band? With letters strung together we sing what lives inside. The timbre of our voices rise and fall in time with the heart-chord-thrum of life, and death, and love. And by we I mean me. I mean all of us with an ear to the sky. How else are we to make sense of this life we live if not with the melody whispering on the wind? I may move “to the rhythm,” but I’m craving harmony. I can feel a breeze but I don’t know what it means. For her, for us, for me. But oh the songs I’ll sing.