Because I am in a rush. Because I need to slow down. So that the daily will become the routine. I practiced in January and now February is real time, made virtual. Because my friends are watching. Because my mother is so far along in her Alzheimer’s that I have to salvage what memory I have for her. Because my father is not here. Because that nagging to clean your room didn’t work so I have to make something that counts. Because I am willing. Because I want to say something I forgot I had to say. Because I need a habit that keeps me company and whispers fiercely in my ear even when I am running on the road. Because we sat around the dinner table and listened to all the crazy stories. Because no one plays cards anymore, or cracks the almonds and walnuts with the bird shaped nutcracker. Because I really love to sing and this is as close to my voice as I can get, even if I am not in a night club singing sexy love songs.
Archive for January, 2013|Monthly archive page
I write because I hear voices and I want to get them down and dialog with them while I still believe in them. Walking along the Erie Canal, in silence, in winter, the voice of the old lift bridge on Main Street groans as the cars cross it, howls as the wind whips through the struts. Walking on, it is easy to forget that independent voice of the bridge, unique, musical, sad. It is even more likely that rather than forget the voice, an assumption will creep in and lie down in my memory with the voice and whisper “it was not a voice but a sound.” I write because everything has its own voice and to deny those voices is criminal.
What stands in my way? The din of mind chatter, the clock, the calendar, the “to do” list, the mind dulled by nine-to-five. Each day born and each day dead without my noticing its passing. What stands in my way is the gray noise that obscures my ability to hear and pay attention to those voices that surround me.
Until I dialog with each new found voice, for instance, the trees above the pond down on Wesley Hill on the last day of October, until I respond, write of them, write to them, then they remain for me, at best unknown and at worst unreal. I write to investigate, to envision, to witness, to dialog, to chat, to add my voice to those that call out to me from just over my shoulder. I write in order to call back.