There is a river of music, melody and verse, coursing through me. I can feel it bubbling up, deep calling to deep, the origins of which have their spring far beyond me, and yet when I find myself here...I am lost. Daunting. Frustrating, and somehow fulfilling.
It begins with some new melody playing through my fingers that was somehow already there, as if I am the true instrument playing an instrument.
Then come the words, in full, in part, it doesn't matter. They just come. Again, as if they were already penned, already arranged.
Next comes this doubt. Is this some old, famous, forgotten tune just rambling about in my mind? Has this been done? Has this been said? Is this original? How can it be if it comes so freely?
And there begins the unraveling, as if I've inadvertently pulled some rogue thread that now has no foreseeable end, and suddenly all of these magical pieces drift from me.
I'm left clutching, grasping for something that may as well be pixie dust in the shadow of frustration, and time slips away as I try to put a ribbon on it, except this gift is not some inanimate object. It's alive, moving, always changing. Wrapping that gift is exceptionally, indeterminately impossible.
Sometimes I think I need a band. I need a group of like-minded musicians. Collaboration.
I need people who can just roll with it like in the good old days, and then the musings will become complete, finished, polished... useful.
But will it? What is the actual use? Is it to share with the world, or is it just what it is, deep calling to deep, a conversation with my own soul?
40 years I've had this dance with music. 40 years we've gone round each other as if we're in some medieval ball room dance, only touching fingertips lest anyone mistake us for more than we are. She is magical and beautiful and full of inspiration, yet after all this time I feel she is still a question mark, and why? Is it because I don't know her or because I don't know myself?
There is nothing more inviting and at the same time more daunting to me as this scene.
