Sometimes when I sit down to write, the rhythm of my words come easily. It echos, often, the place, the situation, the feeling I'm writing from, extending as a part of what I'm writing of instead of something new, but I sit here now, and hesitate to put down words as extensions.
I want to write a new way. I want to write something that awakens me as the writer instead of rehashing a life I'm living, although, even as I write this sentence, my mind turns inwards and backwards, recounting and reliving, and I shiver all over again as I'm recentered, away from my kitchen and the smell of sauteeing vegetables back to seat 127, row O, left of center stage in the orechestra.
I sat away from my friends, as all of our tickets were scattered, skipping one and sometimes two seats--one friend, in particular, sat a dozen or so rows away from us, closer to the stage--we were all envious but good-natured in celebrating her luck.
There she stood, on a turkish carpet, next to a high stool placed solely on stage to hold a vase of spring flowers--the woman whose music was introduced to me, mostly, by a very significant woman from my past. Perhaps, looking back, she was her Emily Dickinson, though Dar Williams, to me, is partly her. Thankfully, I have relinquished her enough to listen to Williams' ballads without sadness or regret, and I admit that I'm thankful for those hours (I recall one night in particular) when we lied together, listening to Dar Williams serenade us into ever-slipping night with love songs and anthems, humorous choruses and haunting lyrics. I remember the smarting of tears, the playfulness of grins, the contentment that only came to us in moments instead of days.
Tonight, I made Dar mine, or rather, I took her away from us, which is not to say that there won't be songs that will wrap, until my memory fades, around my memory of her, my memory of us, and I trust there will always be the memory, just as there will always be new lovers, new songs, new places of beginnings, new ways of endings.
We live our own lives and sometimes the rhythms are as natural as allowing them to extend into tears.
...and there's nothing wrong but there is something more...Dar Williams