I listen to a lot of music while I’m writing. I have mixes I’ve come up with over the years, they range in variety and texture. I’ve named my mixes, because it’s what my sister and I always used to do. Make each other these mixed tapes, cd’s and call them wonderfully ridiculous things. For example: Mountain songs, Songs to Sing, For the Road, Hippie on a Bike with a cockatoo #3. Today, I put on an old cd I haven’t listened to in a long while, something I had hastily, lamely named For the Rain.
It took over my otherwise normally scheduled writing. The music drifted, swirled around my head before it climbed inside.
The beat seeps into my skin. The melody blows a cool wind on the back of my neck making the hairs rise. And the lyrics squeeze my heart. My mind can’t find the wherewithal to write, it wants to gaze out the window, let the fog of the moment take over.
Give over to the dreams.
I’m immersed, floating. I’m every word ever uttered. I am Viking and Pioneer. I’m a wisp of cotton on the wind. I’m a soft word spoken by a lover. I am a cloud circling the earth.
I want to let the likes of Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen have coffee with Nikki Giovanni and Judy Chicago. I want to be an immobile presence as the breath of their words and ideas choke me with possibility.
I’m frozen in a breath of time when I was everything and nothing and the one who held my hand made me whole and the world didn’t matter. I am the lights, neon, fluorescent. Incandescent glowing arms reaching into the darkened night sky from the bed of the city. I am rock, raised into a mountain, worn over eons, a perch for youth to sit. I am a howl of a coyote. I am a secret whispered into the darkness. I am a chance never taken.
All because of a song I am the infinitesimal blink of an eye where hope lives.