CHERISHING THE LONESOME
How is it that some songs come to fill us, define us, sum it all up, whilst others do not hold any heart for us? This morning the lines rose up ( snow frazen on the roof, a still day, cold, settled), of themselves, dragging their constellated nets of memory and feeling.
Do we become shaped by them or do they so perfectly will what we are so as to become part of us, entirely? History and identity coming down to radio songs and the secret shared discoveries of this voice or that voice, this tune, these words, these crashing chords. A selection of identities by sound. Naked pathways, already becoming set, though still unnamed, an internal hollowing out of clay, a sculpting of attitudes, an adoption of stance and gesture, a constant attempt to find the heart of a secret name, a true name that can only be found on the tip of the tongue, the back of the brain, perhaps the soul, perhaps the first link, the line of memory: I am this. This I am.
The way we choose to lie in sleep. The ways we choose. A confederation of paradox, a constellation of time-worn sink-holes, (the familar caves echoing, passages dark and shadows distorting, amplifying trains of thought). This name we have, this shape, this song, so deeply owned it has absorbed, coloured, flavoured all else. They have become us because they were the same as us. Their dance, our dance. Their view, our view. It is not complicated. It is not important. ( the spider web at the window is important. The way the cloud layers pink then blue is important. The echoing crow calling from the ash tree is important).
This ripple of words, digging and sifting, this song, the chorus, this artfulness, is a spinning within silence. A constant attempt to turn and turn, to see one’s own back. Slapstick ( it’s behind you), and it will always be behind you, spine holding everything up, unseen, a coathanger for tomorrow.