Tumble Me a World
My childhood was much like a washer machine...my life tumbling about with as much direction and stability as the rince cycle. my father absent is soul and direction, never peering into my soul or trying to give to it in any way, while sleeping with every woman that was not my mother. And she, my mother, trying to keep it all together with work. Working long and hard hours at a realestate and furniture company we once owned. We no longer own them, these businesses are no longer a part of our reality: haven't been for some time. But I am getting ahead of myself here. That's not really the part of the story that I wanted to share. I'm not quite sure what part I wanted to share, but that part seemed too cumbersome.
I really love music. The words and soul of music flows to my soul. It pierces my way of being, capturing memory and bringing it back to me in waves. After a good song, I feel like I've run 1,000 miles and had years to ponder the reason of life. And at the end feel closer to knowing that reason. I love great Spanish and French ballards. These songs sound so lively, so full of grace and delight. But there's just this one thing, I like the idea of liking them more than I like them. Because I can't understand the words (I must learn both french and spanish fluently). I studied French in college (2 years in Monaco), but my French is so rusty , because I put it on a shelf and never used it. So when I hear these great songs offering up stories in French, I can feel the spirit behind the words but I can't lace them together so that they can reveal something to me. It's like reading an old faded newspaper, there are a few words that I recognize...but I can no longer understand what the article is saying. So I am left a bit frustrated. There are diamonds there I know, but I am clueless as to what they are while I'm holding the brittle paper straining to read.
In many ways my childhood was like listening to great French music. I knew there was meaning in it, I just couldn't see it then. Then it left me frustrated and wanting more. Now, only now have I learned to read the language of my past. And to be honest, I'm still not fluent. But at least I am beyond conjugations and can string words together to form a sentence and hence gather meaning. Some of the meaning is coming together as i write. So I know this labour is more for me than for you. To be honest, I have no idea whether or not any of this will speak to you or clarify anything. It's just my story. A part of me, ok a huge part of me, hopes it does. Maybe that's beacuse I want you to hear my French song and sway to it with lithe arms and legs and feel alright. Because you understand what I am saying; because you feel closer to understanding your reason of being in life. This is lofty, don't I know it. But I can't help but believe that our stories, all of our stories, bring meaning to our lives individually. Because some how my story, my song needs you...and, your story and song needs me.
