Without Sound (3)

(from the beginning)

Intermezzo andante teneramente
(August 2004)


When the memory fades, does the sound disappear? How many sisters would it take, anyway.  How many was enough, exactly?  And how lost could you be on the back roads into town, in the fog, exactly.

Melody is movement.  Seems pretty obvious.  Vagrant writing is best.  The mind wanders with the turns of phrase and beat, turns of idea brought on to others by their own experience.  Vagrancy presupposes no fixed perception.  No address to hang a heart, no welcome mat but your own clear face.

Vagrant melodies run counterspin, produce without the swing and sway.  Melodies like that can work their way into your heart.  Your heart is where your work is done, catching the melody, vagrant, real.

And when the la-la-la rolls in rhythm and rhyme, and time erases anything but the wonder of how you couldn’t have seen it before.  That’s when you know it’s right.

And that can catch you anytime.

In any heart.


Without Sound (2)

(from the beginning)

Intermezzo andante teneramente
(August 2004)


Embracing a line was like finding a place to start.  Painful in the beginning and fraught with danger; dangers of excess, danger of meaninglessness, danger of something to say and saying it badly.  There was always room for that.  And when balance returned and he felt one place was as reasonable as another, he would begin.

One line really was as good as another.  In the beginning you never really knew what you were going to say, anyway.  And once you’d said it, well the thing you said would be heard by so many people, all who thought it meant something different.  Some were quite sure and others were less certain, but it all meant something different.  Viola was the maid’s breath, horn for heart.  No need for call and answer when the ground is there.  Sounds unfold in their own time.  Radiance beams in its own way.  Just might not see it.

Couldn’t see much when the fog was down like this.  Driving the back roads was less fun when you couldn’t see far enough to stop for deer.  Only happened once, wasn’t worth repeating.  Fog left you suspended in time.  Couldn’t look down at the clock, take your eyes off the road and you’d lose the lane.  Eyes on your whereabouts long enough you’d lose how long you’d been there, how long you’d been doing that.

“Any idea where we’re at.”

“We haven’t come to town yet?”

“Much help, much appreciated.”


“Just as soon be through this.”

“I hear you.” then, “tell me a story.”

The one where the storm blew and blew and no one was saved?  Where not one shred of humanity was left unscarred?  Pibroch for pity, forget the sturm und drang.  Life was a carnival, remember?  Plays well with others, given half the chance.

The one where the stars come out for fear that their demise has been threatened?  Seven sisters, now six, now five.  Once there was a belt of stars, you could see it on the clearest nights.  Now there’s little to mark the place.  Like going blind must be.  Things just fade.  Don’t remember what was on the corner before that building.  Nice the way they tied it into the donut place on the corner.  Irony must surely be alive and well, they’d matched the colours of all of the fast food buildings on all five corners, and somehow it all blended into the B&B factory.  Things made with flame and steel.  Six sisters, now five, now four.


Sounds Like…

kbsitegraphicques01I’ve been asked, and so far nothing.  Maybe you can help.

You see, the tragedy of ‘onomatopoeia’ is that it doesn’t follow its own advice.

So if there was a word which both was it and described it, what would it be?

Or maybe better,

What would it sound like?

A Matter of Definition

Ah, now I understand.

Twitter is a noun


one who


Without Sound

Intermezzo andante teneramente
(August 2004)

Lost would be a place without sound.

He knew what lost would be like.  It would be a clang of alone and a low roar of heart pounding and if he let go of the hand we would be lost and that’s about what it would sound like.  That was his first memory and it came back at times.

Time he couldn’t remember when life had no sound.  Always leaves and trees and wind piling through.  Peepers and coyote if you were on the edge of town and even in the silence of snow the tick tick of the heating and the tock of the mantle clock.  Dark wood sounding the seconds a chestnut brown rattling.  No one wound the chime anymore, the rhythm seemed enough.  He could always bring that back.

Other times sounds ran blasting their own way through, taking their own path and their own time, fighting for his full attention.  Holding onto one was fearful work, while the others clamoured for more.  And even the one you’d grab hold of had no interest in turning itself into anything useful.  It wasn’t as if notes and scrap built themselves naturally into movements and line.  Long lines of melody spring in from a rumble of thinking.  Life as a series of moments strung together without purpose.  He could never get that.

He couldn’t get it when his life folded on itself and patterns he’d seen before re-shaped and re-played themselves, a decades long pulse that he sometimes thought he could just hear if he held himself still long enough.  He’d never really had the time.  Never taken the time.

Now might be a good time to try.  Now might be a good time to still right down and see what he could hear.  Reeds thin and clear.  Lose the clatter and roll.  There’s a pattern to everything, just a matter of how you hear it.  What way you get it.  Sit five people in a room and their conversations will ebb and roll like a good tune.  Cellos listen well.


Can Never Be

The one place I can never be

is where you are standing

right now.

Are You Listening?

kbsitegraphicques01He stood quiet at the front of the room and waited for the space he knew would come.

Are you listening to the words I’m saying

he asked,

or just the sounds I’m making?

To Remember

The thing you have to remember he said

is I live in a country where

can opener

is a job description.


One benefit to short term memory loss is you’re usually there before you know it.

And of course re-gifting is somehow less of an issue.

Still True

Ah friend, you’ve heard me say it before, sadly it’s still true.

Words are not my first language.