April 19, 2009
There are alot of things I used to do. Things I did that made my regular life, well, my regular life. Little things you'd never notice yourself doing when you were happy, say for instance, tying your shoes on one foot then the other, the exact same way over and over. But once there is that impact, that event that changes your life, changes the way you live, you notice everything you've lost.
Change happens both ways. For good and for bad, and some people can never let go of their habits but at some point change has got to give. Man and woman are not made from granite, we are not made from iron and we are not made from wood. If we were made from granite, we would be hard and stern. Changing only to the elements and to human force. If we were made of iron, we would be cast and be brittle, and the only change we would see is the corrosion from neglect. If we were wood, we would be flexible yet rigid, many yet easily destroyed and changing to any means possible. I think we are clay. Soft, malleable to any form, possible to make rigid permanently but still, with time to mold and work and play with. If you look at people around the world if they were clay, the only ones who have been fired in the kilns are those who are six feet under.
My head used to be filled with music. Operas, librettos, scores, orchestras, symphonies, songs, melodies, jazz bands. Nary was there a night I could fall asleep without difficulty as my own head sang me to sleep. Then what happened? Where has the music gone? I lay in bed, gaping at the ceiling in a fish sort of way, trying to breathe, thinking of all my bodily functions trying to shut down. No more jazz, no more Shostakovich, no more Gilbert & Sullivan, just silence. Plain as day silence. Even throughout my daily life, the music isn't there or isn't as strong as it used to be. I wonder where the pit has gone?
Mold a statue's arm of clay over another statue, then remove the other statue, the arm begins to sag under its own weight. It cannot support its own. Unless you fired it or made it rigid. But where is this rigidity? Where is this "backbone" so to speak? She tells me it comes from touching your bases. Finding that root element that can define all. That's all fine and dandy but how on earth do you stick a skeleton into a clay statue that's already made? It's impossible unless you start from scratch. As a student, there is no time. If I were an artist, I would have plenty time to do whatever I felt like. Quite.
But even now, I feel the pressure, I feel the problems bearing an ungodly weight upon me. The pains in my lame arm start to become apparent and I suffocate. Where is air? Where is feeling? Where is my skeleton, on which I can build my life on?
I dont know.