someone or no-one
From a champagne-swilling continuo goddess to a dust-busting wife in twelve hours, this time I am having some difficulty coming back off the high; the drunkenness of imagining myself pure being serving the common good and realising that I am just another ego bumping around in a building site; of thinking that I was someone because of the very fact that I could disappear in to the music and become no-one to realising I am nothing but a body full of emotions and thoughts. Just another clumsy someone.
For a few days my state of openness was deliciously raw. We sat together paying bills, packing paintings and ordering Beatles albums off the net. Outside someone had poured maple syrup into the earth, and orchards and vine rows had become amber rivers and golden ponds. Our new toy grinned at us from the verge. Nothing could have been lovelier than these simple things. Then a door slammed. I heard a glass break. The lights went off inside. I curled up into a ball with a grey cat and was lost. Somewhere in that silent place I felt one urge - to wrap a phrase from the previous week in golden thread and offer it up: The wordless essence of me - of no-one - now clouded again by daily grind and conflict.
If this day were an aria, and I the continuo line, what would I do, I wondered? I would hold my note. I would listen and I would keep in mind where I was going. I would absorb the melancholy colours of the drama raging above me and I would not forget that spring would return like it always did.