Thursday, March 05, 2015

A bewildering tale of dark things and hidden wonders

I wrote a song tonight. It came to me while I was enjoying the company of friends and lovers. I don't watch television, but they do, and The Voice came on. There was an older man singing, and apparently there's a game element to the show, and he sang well and with this older style. But the song that came to me was different than any of those songs, and it came to me while I was suddenly talking to myself and saying the strangest nonsense, and I admit it, I was there in the bathroom, when I found myself washing my hands and toweling them off and singing this simple song.

No paper. I had a pen, since I always carry a pen with me in my pocket. You never know, so be prepared. But this was more than a hand could carry, so I needed a scratch paper. The tune was there, the words struggled out, and it started to unflow out of me. Colleen drove us home as I was writing this song across the seal of an envelope.

As I sang it to her, I worked through the last lines and crossed it out many times. But listening to the meter and the parallel and the sound, I had to be honest. The song was too uncomfortable. It hurt me, because it meant, if I'm writing this song, that it's me. It's me singing this song, saying these words, being this pain, and the pain was real. The pain was about death, and the loss of something who one is. You lose something so close and so intimate, it is more you than you know, you just fall apart at the seams. Clean, quick break into your parts. You see, it hit me that this song wasn't about me.

She sang to me from beyond the grave, her grave. She sang through me a song of sorrow about sorry, a song one sings for another whom one's hurt so hard, for being a coward or a fraud or too-not-strong to find the strength. The death of God never hurt me, since he was never my god. She, my goddesses, was always my hidden god, whom I never knew until I knew her as dead to me.

I am no longer afraid. Broken and pieces, I am a bearer of bad news, and good news.

The bad news is, she is dead. She died a long time ago, and we killed her. Everything dies, when you kill them, even a god. Death strikes down even them.

The good news is, she spoke to me from beyond her grave.

I asked her, "If you're dead, then how are you speaking to me now?"

"I don't know."

I am here to tell you this good news and bad news. I am here to tell you that everything is going to be alright. Death is a victory, and someone triumphs when they kill.

But sometimes you hear a song and it unravels you, bends you to cry such loss and devastation, the despair bleeds out your eyes from squeezing them so tight.

How could I be so affected if it were not real pain? If I knew deep down, none of this pain, such loss, is real, then how can I lose something I never had? How can I lose something that doesn't exist?

She is dead. She speaks to me from beyond her grave. She doesn't know how. How is this possible?

I don't know.

I do know that the song needs work, and it needs the melody written down.

This poem isn't the song. The song will finish later.

All this, under a shining moon, bright high in the sky
silently spelling to sleep
The suncentered world turned to catch the light
Darkness and dimness, time for all ears.
Listening, slissening, to stillness, silence,
noise.

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