Communication Overload

I wish that I didn't have such a huge need to communicate. I feel too much to keep it inside - which is probably why I became a musician in the first place. And why I began to meditate. So that I can tame and direct the intense energies that constantly flow through my heart and mind.

The landing has been rough - coming home from Saratoga. I was over stimulated after a long creative drought. And I am not okay. I have spoken (through e-mails, texts, calls) when I shouldn't. Technology has made communication too easy and yet the price (emotionally) is too high. Proximity has convinced me that there is no other way to be with people than to BE with them.

I write to satisfy my own need, not considering what others might need to hear from me. Or what they might need me to be quiet about. Why can't I just keep silent? I embarrass myself constantly (e.g. "The Enthusiast" in the archives). I am writing this for no one and for no good reason. I am writing only because I can't just sit here and feel this way.

Half in Love with Easeful Death

"Discovery, is the warmth of eyes that leaves us lying in defeat....." Matt Pond

I look at Death and he looks at me. We may never make it back. We might dance or fuck or breathe his dark breath deep and be finished. If this is the last of life, if this is all there is......let's sing. I open up wide and make a sound. A brave throated ballad or hymn or round. Death always sings to me, its the least I can do for him before, like every living thing, I'm begging on my knees.

Running with my eyes closed to the rain, I laugh out loud. We may never make it back. And nothing will happen. The world will persist as if we never were. Glaciers will move and melt, whole species will proliferate and die out. I look at Death and he looks at me. I am a little in love, but he is not my kind. He possesses articulate hands, luminous eyes, laugh lines. Soon I will kiss his feet and bathe his neck with tears. Please, not yet. Something in me hopes that he is only the stuff of dreams, a specter of imagination and fear. But in my marrow I know: the privilege of life is a debt, that in the end, must be paid in full.

I am searching for Life - with my eyes closed. Running into the dark with no understanding of when I will hit the wall, walk off the cliff, stumble and fall. I look at Death and he looks at me. He is not fearsome but beautiful, radiant in his artful guise. A sweet, sweet companion in whose amnesiac embrace I live. I am a little in love, but not yet. Let's dance or fuck or breathe awhile. Please, let's just sing.

Argonaut II

She opens her eyes. She is alone.

Turning in the dark she senses the trees. Senses and does not see - for she is stumbling and blind, tripping over roots and rocks, hearing the elegiac sway of branches. She falls, hands and knees full of dirt, does not cry out. She stays down. It is quiet except for her pounding heart, her rasping breath, the music of branches. Not one creature makes a sound, even the insects sleep. She stays down. She wonders what they dream about.

Slowly she lifts her head. Glimmering through the trees, just ahead, there is.....something. Weary, aching, she pulls herself up, tests her arms and legs, takes a tentative step. Should she be afraid? She is not, she has forgotten herself. She steps firmly, folding back the branches. Her feet dance over tree roots, rocks, vines. She crushes the cool, flat green leaves in her fists and lets go, the branches snapping back over the path.

At a break in the trees she sees the source. A lake and the moon. The impenetrable water caresses the shore, lulling the reeds with it's gentle suck and slap. The moon reflects, mysterious, seductive, on the undulating surface. She stands at the water's edge, wondering, longing. She kicks off her shoes, unties her dress - wriggles free, unfastens her bra, throws it from her shoulders, steps out of her panties - kicks them away and.... stands, feet in the mud - present, creatureful, naked, alert.

With a holler, she jumps! Plunges deep into unknown water. It is shocking cold and seizes her limbs. She stays under, holding her breath until her lungs are on fire, until her head rings - a crystalline sound like the chiming of bells. She stays under. She opens her eyes.

The moon is luminous and cold over her left shoulder. She could reach it in an hour - sleep long, hard and deep on it's dark side. The stars surround her - gaudy prisms - resonant with light. And in between, the dark void. A vast, unobstructed space - she has forgotten herself. She laughs, turns somersaults, arabesques - basks in the cold harsh light of the moon, the song of the stars, the velvety darkness. She gasps and pauses - spotting the earth far below. Oh, it is breathtaking. So small, so precious, so green. So rare....so impossibly bright.

Argonaut

She places her right hand against his chest. The long plane of his sternum fills her palm with presence - with the striving wings of ascending birds, the pounding breath of steam engines, the roar and rush of waterfalls, the vivid locomotion of heart and lungs - it fills her palm with... life.

She wraps her left hand around his neck, twining her fingers into the hair at the base of his skull. She tightens her fingers with each inhalation, each exhalation, pulling him closer - feeling in their bodies the epic pulse of radio tower lights. Silent they stand, signaling into the sky - simultaneously warning and inviting - aeroplanes, bats, moths! - crash into me/don't crash into me.

She presses her lips to his neck and breathes deep. Rain on hot pavement, the rich loam of fresh turned earth, the sun and salt kissed skin of swimmers, the hushed scent of sleep warmed beds, sweet honeysuckle and the bite of burdock. She breathes - intoxicated by the himness of him. She places his hands around her hips, slides them to her waist - willing him to traverse this landscape. She is of the mountains, craggy, rolling, verdant - secret with hollows, tree roots, streams and brambles. Her heart is a red bird hiding, watchful and silent, in the underbrush. It is brilliant. It is built for flight.

She unbuttons the top button of his shirt - fingers stinging and shaking from the shock of his bare skin. She strokes the place just below the hollow of his throat. She worships this diamond of skin. She is prostrate before it, she is breathless, she is light headed, she is bright. It is sacred, it is volcanic, it is ravishing, it is right. It is the only part of him she will ever have.

She closes her eyes, holds her breath, counts to ten. She opens her eyes. She is alone.

The Enthusiast

I forget myself. I have made promises that now fall to other people to keep. I am deeply grateful. It is a kind of salvation, a lifejacket that keeps my head above the water while I work out my ineptitude. While I decide whether to tread water or to swim.

I am an enthusiast, you see. I love people. I really, really LIKE them. I rejoice in connection: creative, mental, verbal, literal, emotional, physical. These connections fill me with elation, with a kind of bliss. Ecstatic, I forget myself - like a child engrossed in an imaginary game. I leave the world behind. I am happy, interested, electric, alive. I act. I turn, spinning and spinning until I fall down. Dizzy, overexcited.

It's only when I wake from the dream that the embarrassment kicks in. A sense of shame. It confuses me. Embarrassed for having been who I truly am for a little while? For letting that secret self into the world? Or is it for having made choices that prohibit my true self from being fully present? Embarrassment?! I could weep for the lack of joy in it.

I try to stand brave in my shoes, chin up, with a bold gaze. You only get one life. I am an enthusiast. I walk the line. I have done nothing, I confess everything not done. I don't kill (not even mosquitos!), I don't steal, I don't lie. I confess the stupid things (I drank, I smoked, I kissed, I danced) - even when it costs me.

And yet there is an embarrassment. Because (it seems to me) I am too enthusiastic. Because I have too many words. Because I want. Because I act. Because I spin and fall down. Because I find it so very difficult to be myself in the world. So very difficult to stand brave in these shoes.

Horse Shoes and Hand Grenades

For once, there was no confusion. Heart, body, and mind aligned with a resounding "Yes!". If something interesting was happening, if some life was going down - all of me wanted in. How rare! How completely, helplessly in love with the moment. Laughing for the absurdity, the joy of breath and heartbeats, sweat and mosquito bites, chipped nail polish, hair, hands, sternum (oh sternum!), spine, hips, leg bones. The impossible tickle and texture of grass covered in morning dew. The siren song of smell, taste, touch. (ah, smell!). This is not all there is, it is not even the most important. But for a lovely, loved moment, it was enough.

Morning. A morning when the sand has already run through the hourglass. When forces are not gathering - not trembling on the potent verge - but dispersing with a "whoosh!" to the four corners of the earth. A morning like this is no time for beginning.

Possibility remains. A hidden land. The voluptuous, undisclosed country of the imagination. It is a secret joy. An inner talisman I hold against difficult times, boredom, sadness. Friendship remains. Art remains. Happiness remains. Creativity remains. Memory (oh yes, thank God, memory!)... remains.

And having so much, I open up my arms, I spread my palms to whatever is coming. I laugh and count myself lucky. Something amazing almost happened! Maybe something amazing did happen. Almost... only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades - so the saying goes. But no matter what angle I look from, I call it a ringer.

Es Ist Schön

Music, language I have known my whole life. Vibration of cells, rhythm of the very heart. As a child, I used to listen to my pulse beating against my pillow, the oceanic hum of my breath. The strum of my Dad's guitar, the twang of his voice, "Hey Jude!" as I played with dolls on the living room rug. Hymns sailing over my head as I stood tiny and bold in my dress shoes at church. Chewing the half stick of peppermint gum my Grandmother offered, I listened to my Grandfather's booming, imperfect voice "Oh the land of cloudless day! Oh the land of an unclouded day!". A consolation to Sunday boredom.

And suddenly (it seems) I am 38 years old and onstage in Germany. Mature with the joy of eyes, vivid electric connection, sonic shapeliness, sensuality of sweat, vitality of breath and motion. I can hear you breathing next to me! Ecstasy of hearing! Brain lighting up like a thousand fireflies, playing together, playing apart. Here comes my favorite bit....right....now! We leap into it together, full heartedly and my heart is...full.
We are wicked and polished. Daredevils! The Red Baron in a streaming scarf and goggles. We are barn storming and everyone knows it. They laugh, applaud and wriggle in their seats. They..... enjoy, we enjoy!

Screw all jadedness! All sad sap gigging. All sighing and humpfing and dragging of feet. Smile....rejoice with me a little. These are people who really know how to play music. They give and give and give. It's not so easy when you breathe life into every damn note. When you pay attention to what is going on around you. When you make a decision, a solid determination to be awake, aware, alive....every moment. That is the effort, the gift.

These are people who really know how to play music. It makes me happy, grateful. Proprioception - extend awareness outward - ears, body, mind, heart. And we become something so much bigger than ourselves alone. I will never forget the last chord of the tour - Emlyn you rolled it! I heard you.