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.