4.22.2005
Moon and Cheese
I think i may have forgotten my own voice -- as tragic as that is. When I write, I wonder if it's really me or some cheap immitation. Cheap...and weak too. Jesus, fill me and let this be the place of my battle. He's right, I'm right. It's all worthless without You. And even now, as I sit totally convinced, my pen wavers just a little. I am in desperate fear of that small betrayal. To trade a Judas kiss for 30 pieces of what I want. We're not so far apart -- we and Judas. Not very. Dreams be dreams, let the past run and die. I want to write songs. Something that will be at home with the sun, and the drops of rain that streak against my window. Words that meld perfectly with a howling wind and pounding surf. Forget your beer and your pot and your parties...what about the scratching of palm leaves against each other. What about stars that call your soul to sing? A moon whose craterous imperfections remind me that the beauty isn't from the surface...but radiates. It glows. It shines and illuminates, casting its legacy through spindly branches and down quiet creeks which may never give it recognition or homage. Follow the moon as it changes and grows, shrinks and moans. Walk the path in night, dodge the knfeman or take the scar. Run...run...run...watch the moon...watch the moon...
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You really can write. Your voice is beautiful and real and you. You're right about the betrayal: it scares all of us, I'm sure. To have this gift, this elixir to save the people, and to risk losing it, wasting it, by a small mistake -- it was small, wasn't it, that needless word, shouldn't have hurt a fly; and there I regress into cliche -- but that small mistake, I fear, may kill this faerie, so clap, clap before she dies, before this run-on sentence scars your heart. Stop, and realize this elixir for the masses is full of grace: pour it all, pour just a drop, mix it many ways and try it this way and that: try anything, write anything, just write.
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