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Thirsty for the Whisper
What would be the value of anything if you didn’t have to dig for it?
I’m a relatively obscure writer, singer and songwriter. Like everyone else, I want to be received, listened to, heard, read. But I don’t need applause… anymore than the birds I’m watching now — perching, flying, singing, pecking for worms — need any applause from me.
The air I “fly” in is swollen with sound, memory, fragrance, and desire. The music I “hear” is swimming around somewhere in my blood. I’d love to declare that I simply write for the same reason that birds simply sing.
If only it were that easy.
There’s a constant clamor inside me demanding my attention. But I often don’t know how to separate the signal from the noise. Writing, for me, is a means of finding meaning — the whisper barely discernible amidst the noise.
I’m thirsty for that whisper. Thirsty for the through-line that connects me to the source of beauty and truth that I am always, consciously or unconsciously, seeking. It masquerades as sound, the perfume of the most perfect melody. It masquerades as words hiding behind the verses of a poem.
It masquerades as birds, as grass, as worms.
What would be the value of anything if you don’t have to dig for it… if you…
