I’ve been rolling this around in my head for awhile. Actually it’s been years. Stretching out taking a further spot on down the ‘to do’ list. You know the one. No not a bucket list. Just a list of getting around to’s that you don’t treat like a chore or an asap meaning right away. One of those things you know you’ve wanted to do, needed to do as essential as breathing. Except you’ve been holding your breath waiting for the perfect moment. The quiet time. The muse of first report.
I finally rolled it forward enough in my head, placed it in a spot where I could retrieve it when I was ready. Ready to roll it forward once more. Ready to place it in a new hiding spot, so that when the time was right I could crack it open. It being writing. Pure, a river stream cold and running its course. I could paddle over it or dive into the current and let it carry me onwards. Uninterrupted.
Recently I had it in my phone scheduler: Sat, Jan 26, 2013, 8:00 pm: Blog. Now before anyone thinks I was only behind by a couple weeks, I had been rescheduling this writing a couple of weeks before that too.
Of course it’s been even longer than that.
I remember listening to Pink Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ for the first time when it really meant something. I was in my thirties.
I had heard some of the album before. I remember sitting under my aunt’s back porch. It was early evening, dark, pouring rain. My cousin had set up a hang out and bs area with some white plastic chairs around a white plastic table. If you looked out into the yard you could see the sillouhette of a pear tree in the background to the right past the grass lawn. It and an apple tree in the foreground kitty corner to the balcony straddled my aunt’s garden now shaded in the twilight. The cassette tape lay beside the player among some other titles on a wooden bench. I popped it in and turned it up. As the rain beat down on the metal roof above I became more aware of the sound of a heartbeat but because the player was small and the speakers obviously suited only for AM radio frequencies it sounded like: CRUP CROK, CRUK CROK,…and then “AAIIIKKK, AAAIIIKKK, AAAIIKKKK, AIIIIKKKKK, AAAAAAAA…..bbrrunnngkkkk”
That was in my teens. I guess for a lot of my years up until turning thirty my radio dial wasn’t quite tuned in. I like to think we were brought up by a bunch of adults who may have considered muzak, and ‘easy listening’ as audiophile reference material. Background noise filtered through disposable radios.
So when I first listened to the heartbeats, the moans, the grumblings, the cash register, the stoned laughter, the lyrics.
I was stopped.
I began to awaken to the chase that I would be running, remembrances of the mild admonishments from my elders. The meaning of what my grade four teacher meant when she referred to me as a ‘late bloomer’ in order to soften the sting for my mom.
The knowing glances.
The original ‘omg’.
I know with writing I can stop for a moment. There is no headlong chase for the warmth of a sunlit ray long past. The only thing stopping me was my commitment to an excuse not to write, my commitment to ‘to do’. It seems absurd one would rather hold their breath in order to hold on to what could be rather than breathe naturally. I guess it is the first hurdle for an artist, to acknowledge that you are not for display to be judged. That your work, or more accurately ‘the work’ is something that needs to get out and expose itself. My youngest brother once said: “Your whole life is just a dream…”, from some techno tune he liked. Then he added: “god’s Dream”. If that’s the case then to me my life is a movie and the whole question surrounding the lead character is: is this guy going to go with the script or make it his own?
The name of this blog is Close your eyes…Fall. If it sounds pretentious then let me know, not because if you think it is I will change it. It’s more curiousity about who would read this than anything else.
In the meantime, don’t sleep, you might miss something special:))