Why is it that the arrival of warmer days in Spring always makes me so tired? I feel like I’ve been drained for months. But it happens every year. When I attended Northwestern up near Chicago, A warm day would descend like a heavy curtain, and the sun would nudge me down on the grass to take a nice, long needed sun nap. Like a cat. My mind finally stops wondering what I should be doing, stops planning more tasks, stops altogether, and I just float for while. It’s like filling up with lighter air after breathing stale, cold, damp for six months. (I live in Oh.) Anyway, I’ve got to get back to my nap. zzzzzzz.
Author Archives: Garnet David
Rhythms of the Seasons
The rhythms of the season hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, ancient past.
Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fleeting days
with meaningful events.
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)
To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.
No sooner sweet Summer arrives
in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation,
then be the slightest incline, the longest day tipped,
we start the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of
Winter.
Thus we arrive again at this valley
of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate
center.
As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration
back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoints of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.
This was one of Barbara’s favorite of my poems.
For Barbara, until we meet again.
This beautiful eulogy was written by my housemate, Joseph, who was quickly becoming friends with Barbara.
How can you.
In spring.
At Easter.
Was it Good Friday, Barbara?
Will you rise again the third day?
Master, had you been here, my brother had not died.
Had I heard the phone ring
Had I heard the phone ring
We were going to color easter eggs
Maureen Beth Katrina Me
and Barbara
Saturday we were going to color Easter Eggs.
Have a jolly old time.
Make new friends
Have a jolly old time
For easter, for spring
For rebirth.
If a man die, can he live again?
Barbara.
Beth had bronchitis.
Maureen had to rush to help a friend.
Sorry, no easter eggs.
Sorry Barbara.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I called, left a message
Sorry, no easter eggs
No celebration of rebirth
Later, I’m sure, sometime. Hope you’re well.
Click.
You called. No one heard the phone ring.
Was the blade in your hand when you called?
No one heard you call.
No one heard you calling
No one heard.
If if if if. If only. If.
No one caught you.
Could I catch you? Could anyone?
You looked into me:
Hungry eyes, longing eyes, I held your eyes as long as I could
Barbara.
I’m not Gabriel.
I have no silver trumpet.
I cannot hold your soul
Slipping slipping slipping away.
How could you
In spring.
The roses will bloom, Barbara.
How will they bloom, knowing you are not there?
Will they not blacken, a sudden blight
turn your yard to mourning?
No, Spring will come
Roses bloom.
They whisper: For roses know. For roses know.
Roses, trees, they have come, they see:
Human lives burning light bright flames
Little lights burning burning burning
The roses know,
They dance, they hold her
Her suffering soul nestled in their velveted petals.
The roses know
Sorrow. They hold deep in their dark velvet heart
The roses know
Roses know it is spring.
Roses wear thorns and wrap themselves in velvet
Velvet: dipped in blood.
We pruned your roses together.
Cut out the dead
Cut out the old and useless and overgrown.
Cut back to the fresh, bleeding green of life
Cut it back.
For it is spring. Time.
Time to: Let death go
The soil whispers of dead things falling to the ground
Dead things: slipping apart to feed
New glowing green rising from the soil
It is spring. Let us whisper: rebirth.
Goodbye, Barbara
WHAM!
Blind-sided. Saw something coming when the caller ID showed her son’s name. Please let her just be in the hospital. He found her yesterday. She’d been laying there for days. Took some pills and slit her ankles.
Implosion.
Shock.
Thinking, “I should have been watching her more closely. I should have called her while I was out of town. I should have…”
Spring weather came today, a few days late. Can’t we just fix it… rewind?
She was here last week, so sad and depressed, wilted, gray, just wanted me to rub her feet. Ahh, a little life, a little tiny hope. Continue reading
Practicing Clarinet
When I practice the clarinet, I try to start from a blank page, blowing warm air from my heart, not judging what comes out of my instrument. That’s me flowing out the other end (among other ends) and I best not trash it. At first it’s huffy and airy and fuzzy. But eventually it starts to refine itself, flowing into a satisfying resonance, with the depth of character I seek. And if not, I try to stay emotionally open to let it happen when it will.
I always keep the ideal of the perfect sound in my ear, to guide me and my instrument toward it. I never reach it. That’s the curse of the performer, to struggle toward an unreachable goal. But to shimmy close to that pure ideal even a few times in a career is the musicians blessing. For me to be able to express and make real the elusive perfection of music is my greatest challenge and my greatest gift.