Currently Writing To: The Bell that Never Rang

“As the door swung to lintel and the line became tight
I caught the man’s orders and swam to the light

Nobody knows when you’ll go and no-one thinks to tell you”
-Lau

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Image from Wikipedia

I originally started listening to Lau about four years ago. Their traditional fiddle medleys would always inspire me to pick up my violin and play.

More recently they have transitioned into experimental folk music, and I love it. They seamlessly, beautifully, incorporate strings into their music and have stunning lyrics.

Here is a relatively new song: The Bell that Never Rang by Lau. The build up at the end has me pressing replay over and over.

Drag

No waste, no waste. Every breath counts.

Inhale exhale inhale.

No waste, can’t waste. Don’t let it burn up unused. It’s such a luxury.

A few minutes and then it’s gone. A few moments of warmth in the lungs. A few moments of warmth against the cold of the world.

What a waste. I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

I, By


I work next to the smell of the sea. 

And sometimes I think that I can understand, just a little, the longing sailors feel when separated from the ocean. 

I grew up next to the sea. 

I know the sound of waves, of gulls, of water slapping the side of boats. 

I grew up watching the sea. 

To be inland, I feel a sense of loss. As if a vital part of me is missing. That sense of endlessness has disappeared. 

The Window

Christine Fichtenr Window

It’s a day where all you do is sit in the window and watch the wind blow through the trees.

Where the rustling is accompanied by your music.

Where your cat curls up on your lap and sleeps the hours away.

Where you can look over at your partner and share a smile that conveys all your love.

Where the sun grows golden among the green of the trees.

Where perhaps you read, or sketch, or write.

Where all the words you speak are soft in nature and in tone.

Where there is tea that steams in warm cups.

Where the day passes gently, busy outside, but calm in the bubble of your window.

—-

Happy Monday! I hope you all had a wonderful weekend.

That is

A presence, everlasting.

Love and wisdom. Knowledge in their eyes.

With each word, we change. Slightly, subtly.

Sometimes it is blood that binds us. Sometimes it is choice. Love transcends blood; cements what choice connects.

Nature’s hold is tangible in the increasing lines and slowing motions. But even She does not hold back our souls.

Sometimes a single glance. A clasping of hands.

“I know.”

Is all that is needed.

Her Skin Held Time

I could feel time in her skin.

It was soft and dry and thin like the skeleton of a leaf half decayed.

It told me of days and months and years that had all passed. It told me that more had passed than would come.

It told me to hold her close and treasure her.

Treasure

If I didn’t know that a heart pumped blood, what would I imagine to be a heartbeat?
Would I think it a drum, played by my soul,
Or a timer, ticking, counting down to my last breath?
Would I think it the footsteps of an angel, keeping pace with my life,
Or perhaps the clinking of gears that run my body, stuttering along until my death?
Would I think it the pounding of a demon, trying to free its sins from the cage of my flesh and bones,
Or the sound of the war that constantly ravages my mind?
Would I think it thunder that accompanies the storming of emotions that make my body their home,
Or the impatient tapping of a deity, displeased with my choices?
Would I think it the ancient language of all beings, its meanings obscure and lost in the world of technology,
Or the resolute beating of the wings of my spirit, driving me ever onwards?

Would I never know that it was so very important,
Or would I know instinctively, every time I gasped for breath and it responded, every time it clenched, every time it felt it would burst with emotion,

Would I treasure my heart the way I do now?

—-

It’s been a while. I hope you are all doing well in this new year.

Rhythm of the Clock

We are painted by time. Our souls the brushes guided by the hours and days and years. Our wrinkles, our scars, strokes of paint the colour of life.

Art that lasts the fleeting forever of our lifetimes.

As we age, we lose our obsession with perfection, and allow time to paint its abstract beauty. For we all lie down to the rhythm of the clock.

Morning Commute

It’s a slow dispersal, like raindrops down a window pane. Pausing, as if in thought. Joining and branching, then disappearing.

Scattered, like a rain that grows with sleepy reluctance.

Then a rush, the storm that finally thunders its presence. Winds and howls that stop you in your tracks, and clouds that impede your journey.

Every morning, a yawning procession.

—-

Morning thoughts on the bus ride to work.