I thought I would share some random thoughts scribbled in my notebook and a small excerpt from the book I wrote.
I always associate music with people I love. A very good friend of mine passed while we were in varsity. The song that reminds me of him I only ever heard twice so far. When I heard the song last night I smiled and thought ‘ I hear you brother…’ But for good measure the song that played next was ‘Hello from the other side…’
Then I laughed and said ‘ yeah, I get it, I hear you…’ The people we love are always with us. I am convinced of it.
His mind is fire and rain.
Still. He is Pure.
Still. He is Good
I want to drown myself in music and banish this arid place from my memory.
This place where… my limbs forget their freedom and my voice that sang for you alone
…no longer knows.. your name.
From my book, these two bits of writing…
I insisted that certain instruments be used. The piano delicately played, the plaintiff violin, the swelling symphony of strings; the soul of the song had to exude a singular and evocative vulnerability; the kind you wished to emote… but dare not. That is how my love for you found its voice.
The music allowed me to create a space in time, free from everything and everyone – where I could see the real you….and you feel and know the voice that sang for you alone.
No one knew what would become of her or where it all started. Long before paper found its way into the hands of our first mother, who suspected something magical could occur if she concentrated hard enough and pressed her thoughts on to it. Ages before her, all the women of my strain were taught one secret story. A single story that changed as the houses changed colour, as the plants faded and bloomed, as men left their wives for prettier, sillier things.
One story told at the fireside, inside the darkest corner of a cave, deep inside the forests, at parties where the wine overflowed, in the rooms of young girls on the brink of impure thoughts and deeds, whispered between old ladies as the dead lie encased in trees and secreted into the ears of newly born girls. One single story – riddled with questions and answers.
And every single woman had a part to play. Only this was asked – a small truth or lie must be offered. A man’s heart is more true than he believes it to be said one of the first Mothers. Red is not always the color of a bleeding heart stated another. Does it matter the color of the sky if your feet move fast enough?
The One Story was not meant to entertain. They were small prayers that were whispered-sung when no comfort could be found at the feet of holy men.