I made use of the extra hour tonight. Its 2am. Im not sleeping. Ive been sitting at the piano in my quiet house like I did when I was a teenager. Back then, Id light candles and hover my hands over the keys, hoping for divine intervention even though I was fairly sure that God didnt exist (or if he did hed pretty much ignored me or would be way too busy to intervene with a 13 year olds desire to start songwriting when she couldnt even play by ear and had no ideas, just this strong almost physical desire to create). I thought if I just sat quietly with my hands somewhere in the vicinity of the key of C, something, anything would come through the silence, seep through and move my hands like a Ouija board. It never happened. It was sharp and such a tug that I remember the physical ache of the need and then the disappointment. Like Id failed. Like something in me that was deep rooted like DNA was calling and I couldnt hear. So I let it go, forgot about it. I, instead, began to date songwriters. Or at least crush out on them. First was Jon Goodman in high school. The boy with the most incredible baritone voice. A superstar of a high school singer. A songwriter. We never dated. He didnt seem interested in me like that. But one summer I thought something shifted, I went away to a summer program for the Arts, a kind of prestigious thing that Id auditioned for and bartered God with everything I had to get in. Jon had gone the year before and he was clearly so far more talented than anyone else in our school, hell, in our State, that just by being accepted I felt a bit closer to the stars. That summer, he wrote me a song. I still remember the first line. It started with She left for Spain today, seems time has left me too. After he went to college, I lost touch and didnt really see him anymore in my life. A few more songwriter-crushes until one day, when I was about 25 or 26, a few songs of my own fell out awkwardly. Something moved inside of me and trickled, then about 5 years later, it started spilling out like water. It still feels clunky and slow to me. Never fluid. Never easy. It took picking up the guitar and wading through a completely new instrument to hear what was happening in the silence. So, tonight I sat at the piano, playing a few of my songs, awkwardly, clunky and rough. Then I tried to play a few songs I knew. It was slow and I had to think too much, translate frets to keys, but it got easier as it got later and later. And then a friend sent me a song and I had to learn it and play it. And now I feel like I wish I had three days of nothing to do but sit at the piano and play until the current runs smooth and clear. Right now theres rocks everywhere. I envy my friends who started writing when they were really young. I always feel years behind. Which is why it doesnt matter that its 2am and I need to wake up early to get somewhere important to my soul - my kind of church - where I find God -- or what I feel is more like a current of wind or water than a blonde human with blue eyes on a cross. Its not just about quiet for me. Its about really early morning or really late at night quiet. Theres an electrical hum and a fearlessness that comes from being half-awake. Hovering hands over a shapeless idea. If I catch even a corner of it in this weary state, maybe when Im awake I can make sense of it. Like saying MacBeth outloud in a theater, I wonder if Im about to be struck down for writing outloud this mystery. Its the thing that makes me feel most insecure. Most vulnerable. Most terrified. Most joyous. Most hateful. Most despairing. Most blissful. Most alive. Most in the current. p.s. and for the record, Im glad that boy in high school didnt return my crush, as that maddening ache started something far more important inside me than any slow-dancing Prom date could promise. p.p.s. he really was the most incredible singer. Probably still is. Wherever he is in the world.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 08:12:54 +0000
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