The Path to Where

THE PATH TO WHERE


The path to where is very long.
It winds over bumps and through detours,
Often dead-ending in piles of old leaves,
Which
When kicked
Yield no resistance
And so flutter and float to earth
While you pitch forward in your excess of energy,
Tumbling down with a thud.

The path to where is very empty.
Don’t expect company
For they are on another track
Set and settled.
So you travel it alone,
Trailing arms through
Icy fog,
Garnering cold water beads
On your fingertips.

The path to where is probably endless.
You travel for a lifetime
Expecting to arrive
Hoping for a rest stop
But you don’t
And there is none.
So you keep going
Feet dragging time passing
Growing ever numb to the pain.

Singing in Chorus

I just finished listening to Samuel Barber’s celestial “Agnus Dei” that was playing on the radio, and I am almost weeping.

The power of the human voice in chorus can be achingly beautiful. Soaring melodies and harmonies create a sound so much greater than the sum of all the individual throats and tongues. Interweaving musical notes and lines rise to crescendos, sink to whispers, and pull at my emotions more than any other single instrument. I listen and am transported deep within myself, yet at the same time far out into spiritual heaven. Here, in a way that is hard to find in any other place, is the illustration of the harmony we can achieve as human beings. The profound richness of the bass line, the sweetness of the tenors, the soft, soothing harmonies of the altos, and the sweeping glories of the sopranos. All mesh to create a wonder beyond the imaginable when following the right piece of music.

When I sang in the choir as a youngster, both at school and at church, I delighted in feeling part of such a powerful band of souls. As individuals, we giggled and talked about clothes, and boys, and how we would try to stay awake during the sermon. We discussed homework and what was on TV and who was doing what with whom. Then we would assemble under the commanding eye of either the choir teacher at school or the choirmaster at church. And we would sing. An alto, I could sing most of the parts, though some of the soprano notes were just a little too high. I could master much of the bass, much to the annoyance of my older brother, a tenor. But my strength was in the alto, moving in and out of the melodies, providing balance and fullness to the piece. I felt a deep connection with my fellow singers, as we sang an anthem at church, or Carmen with the school. Performing the wonderful syncopated “Rio Grande” by Constant Lambert was a highlight. We moved, we sang, we were one.

If you get a chance, listen to Barber, to Faure, to Lambert, to Bach, to Beethoven, Handel, etc., etc. Listen to the spirit of the human chorus. With this, we can move mountains.

I believe

I have much to say about a post from Theresa dated February 14 - and her following entry is magnificent. But since I am keeping this blog for my more creative efforts, I have posted my words on my other blog, My Incentive.

Night Walk

A full moon rode high in the darkness, lighting the fading streaks of airplane vapor trails. Above the city streets stalked Orion the hunter in search of prey, little Sirius at his heel. Below, moving cars outnumbered pedestrians twenty to one, and a never-ending parade of parked vehicles bordered the sidewalks.

The middle-aged woman walked her dog, dwarfed by hunks of apartment buildings and condominiums. She passed a solitary man walking his three dogs, one large, the other two miniatures. The little ones launched themselves at the woman and her dog, with high-pitched aggressive barks. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid little fucks,” snarled the man, dragging them past the woman who pulled to the side to let the party go by.

The woman began to hurry her reluctant dog through the dark street, words tumbling pell-mell inside her weary head. She was anxious to get them on paper before they slipped away. Tugging the dog away from choice scents, she moved quickly up the stairs to her quiet condo. She released the dog from the leash, sat at the computer, and began to type…

Every Picture Has a Story

Beth (http://bethsfrontporch.blogspot.com/ - sorry I have to learn html stuff!) wrote about her picture, and it made me think I want to write about mine.Some 18 months ago, an acquaintance in her thirties was having a lot of success using a matchmaking agency. She was introduced to a lot of different men, all of whom sounded very eligible, and she was having a good time. She wanted to get married and have children, and the ladies who ran the agency were very optimistic and seemed to have a large number of people on their books. I was lonely for the company of a partner, and the on-line dating services were not proving helpful, so I screwed up my courage and went in to talk to the mother and daughter team who ran the agency. My acquaintance is tall and slim , with a sizable poitrine, shall we say. I am older than she, and definitely heavier. Which the mother in the team sweetly pointed out. Thanks. Still, she was very encouraging and said she would have lots of men for me to meet. In return for what to me was a great deal of money, she promised to introduce me to a minimum of three men. I was also required to have my picture taken for their books, not that I ever got to look through the photos of the men. I thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about it. Eventually, I agreed. I reasoned that it meant a great deal to me to find a new life partner, and it was worth it to me to purchase professional help. I put the fee on a credit card and signed up.

I could go on for pages about the disastrous experiences I had with these two individuals. Suffice it to say, it was a complete washout. It was sickening.

So, this is one of the two photos I had taken for their album. I have no idea where the other one went. The photography session was quite fun, I have to say. The photographer was celebrating his 50th birthday that night - his wife was throwing him a huge party - and an old friend had come into town to help with the celebrations, and he was hanging out at the studio for the day. I enjoyed myself with both of them, getting more attention from those two guys than I did from the entire "stable" of people supposedly on the books of the two women who took my money.

Poorer and wiser, I have moved on. The photo remains as a reminder of my folly.

Living alone with

Living alone with only a stone-deaf dog for company after my sons have grown and gone means…

• Hugging my battered teddy bear, Silas, ever more tightly every night in bed
• Coming home to a silent but excited dog, and otherwise mute, dark rooms
• Eating ice cream directly from the carton if I want to
• Leaving my stuff all over the place even though it looks a mess and I don’t like that – after all, it’s my mess
• Selecting the movies I want to watch
• Sometimes drinking a little bit too much wine all by myself
• Knowing that something will be where I left it, wherever that was
• Crying out of loneliness
• Getting irritated when the only phone call I get is in the middle of the only one-hour TV show I have planned to watch (probably Law & Order) and I don’t have TiVo
• Talking to myself just a little bit too much
• Wishing the neighbors would say hello
• Wishing the neighbors would leave me alone and not talk to me
• Walking around naked or half-clothed when I feel like it
• Calling my sons and leaving messages when their cell phones are off
• Dropping everything, regardless of what it is, when a son calls – and they are both welcome to call in the middle of Law & Order
• Going to the movies on my own and really rather enjoying it
• Planning my weekends the way I want to
• Not worrying about where anyone is at midnight or later
• Being solely responsible for letting the dog out and walking her, when I work long hours 25 miles away via congested freeways
• Wondering what there is left to live for
• Taking long, solitary, uplifting hikes in the hills – when I have time
• Worrying, worrying, worrying about money
• Spending altogether too much time in front of the computer
• Using the microwave altogether too frequently
• Not having to think about what to prepare for dinner
• Missing my sons
• Missing the companionship of a life partner and wondering whether there will ever be one at this point
• Making life decisions on my own
• Being able to stay put in bed in the middle of the night if I have a coughing fit
• Having my bathroom just for me, with no chance of a boy needing to use it
• Surreptitiously (or so I hope) checking the ring finger of the rare man I encounter with whom I enjoy conversing
• Not having to inform anyone of where I am going or when I will return
• Wondering, wondering what the future will bring

thinkingmoreaboutit

Beth does indeed have a valid point. You know, some of my most vivid memories from childhood involve being "put in my place," "smacked down," and told not to be so ... so ME. My natural ebullience was frowned upon in a country where putting others first at all times is de rigueur. So I spent a lot of time fearful that the bouncy me might bulge out. The bouncy, creative, full-of-life me. Beth - you are spot on. Aye, there's the rub.

Still, it's worth the effort, I think. My new project involves a stream of consciousness reflection on my life today. I sometimes think that stream of consciousness is a copout, but if by using that technique I can slip under the censor, then I shall happily cop out. The more freely the writing flows, the more freely the ideas will follow. At least that's the plan. I am writing the piece in my head as I stroll around the block with my canine companion night and morning. Talking of whom, it's that time again. Arf, arf, my friends. I am off to stream again, accompanied by the ever-faithful Miss Zelda.

Thanks so much for the encouragement, which is mightily appreciated.

It is time for a new beginning. This blog is dedicated to my creative life (merci, Theresa), and I plan on using it to explore the creativity I know wants to emerge. It is something of an experiment, for I will be attempting to be more revealing of myself, a move of which I am quite fearful. But if my creativity is to flourish, and if I am to be true mine own self (to coin a phrase), I must be bold. And so it begins...