I haven’t written here in awhile. And the reason: I’ve been soaking in inspiration, I’ve been reading whole books and going down rabbit-internet-holes of poets and their poems. Music listening too.
My free time is now relegated to the evenings and weekends which I’ve reserved for long hikes in the Upper Cumberland, less screen time and limiting the social media intake. And in these soft crevices of time between job and sleep and eating and doing, I have come close to the fiery impetus to write to you all, but have subsequently slouched back, watching the flurry of Furiousity float up and away, and it’s felt kinda pleasurable to do so.
I’ve been watching this itchy dog of mine with his coat shedding, leaving him dry-skinned. A recurring image of him with his white tuxedo paws-mid scratch.
I’ve been delighted inside these summer thunderstorms that darken the sky from 2’o clock in the afternoon until the evening. But now a heat wave has settled in and I long for more rain.
And I’ve been warming my fingers along the black and white keys. I’ve been starting to sing again. I’ve sunken deep into reading and listening about ancient mythology and wisdoms of cultures, much all related to my new job of employment (no longer cleaning!). I’ve been turning things over, mostly inwardly, privately, with soft lines still reaching the voices and words of friends.
And yesterday, I had a massage where the masseuse surprised me in more ways than one. Instead of creating an airy ambiance with ethereal sounds of wind-chimes, flutes, and running water, I entered a dark, cozy, plush feeling cave pulsing with the rhythm of a thumpy upright bass beneath a sax solo. This jazz cave was nice, low and slow. I felt nestled below ground, in the o.g “room”, ready for the push, pull, and muscle extraction of the stress nestled so deep in my sinew and flesh. There was another first when this masseuse incorporated breath-work. Inhale, she said, and when I exhaled she pressed deeply on my sternum, pushing all the air out of my lungs. Between the pressure and release of tension (apparently tightest in my forearms!), she intermittently pressed the air out of me, and finished the session by burning palo santo and sweeping its fumes from over my head all the way down to my toes. Whew! It was good.
But back to not writing you. That’s not the best thing, but it is a thing. And its nice to have a little mystery between us ;) And since I’ve been quiet, my senses have been heightened. I’ve been more aware and listening for subtlety, connections and signs. And I had a conversation yesterday that echoed a passage of a book I’m reading, where ancient history came up twice.
How at many times throughout our collective human history there have been times when knowledge has been lost and systems have collapsed. And then what. Well, then comes in oral history and the scribes, the notetakers, so crucial to keeping and preserving our stories of war, peace, knowledge, language, hope. And it got me thinking why can’t I think of my writing like that, not so finite. But a catalog of time. That someone will read to understand how we lived right now in 2023. Whether it was through songs, through tornadoes, through elections, through heat waves, through pandemics. These are our tales to tell and keep, and then maybe, just let go.
And with that I thought it would be nice to capture and share my current summer soundtrack. Here’s what I’m spinning:
Jenny Lewis’ “Joy’All”
Thee Sacred Souls “Easier Said Than Done”
Emily King’s “Special Occasion”
Guy Clark “Texas Cookin’”
Bill Withers “Heartbreak Road”
And if the idea of Note-taking as a practice interests you, I recommend checking out the Substack
by Jillian Hess. She is an academic and researcher of notebooks and note-taking. She has recently viewed and written about Mozart’s notebooks, Ganhdi’s sacred diaries and my favorite, Frida Kahlo’s illustrated diaries here.Hope these scribes and music artists offer some indoor, heat-wave relief and stimulation for you.
Till we meet again,
Nellen