Have I mentioned this before?
The problem with calling myself the afterthought composer
is when I have thoughts
but it isn't after.
So in the middle of all the shit
trials, deep dives, soul digs, surface scratches on things so out of the ordinary
that a surface scratch feels like a fatal blow;
through the deaths of loved ones and the life that goes on anyway,
the mid-air of the leap and the swing of the bat before it hits and during the
tumbling free-fall of love as it is best learned,
the compositions are imagined; they are ideas of paintings and they are the avoidance of words entirely. Blank canvases meet and discuss how much I could be doing; empty pages rustle impatiently, the keys begin to click for themselves, if not only to shatter the crust on the dust of my neglect.
I am not yet in the after
of so many things.
But I promise
I still want to land here
on the page, on white space,
on free to say and watch me as I write this, on hopes
made real and doubt deferred and truth;
truth
as letters, sentences, splashes of paint,
notes in the ear, melodies under my breath.
Creation. She will move for you, she will shake you
and free the dust from its cling
Because this is how she does it.
This is her job, and she takes it quite seriously.
