Love, Death, Taxes: Waltz

I am listening to Natalie Merchant singing her song "Motherland" and I might be on the thirtieth time through now.  It is the most beautiful thing I know in this moment.  Her voice is edgy butter, her lyrics are honest and gorgeous, and it makes me feel happy not to be dead.

Not that I was wanting to be dead.  I wasn't.  There are some works of art, some works of poetry, some pieces of music that can awaken an acute pleasure in being alive enough to hear/see/feel the gorgeousness of someone else's vision, someone else's heart.  Lovely.

The minor keys enchant. 

I'm trying not to notice some things.  I'm trying to be nonchalant.  Trying not to let my feelings show too broadly.  I'm trying to be cool.  I'm trying to not be the broken bird.

Yes.  Yes I know I fail spectacularly at this every day.  My life is about the eternal fountain of hope.  My story is one of "against all odds" glamour.  There are snippets of life, little ribbons of memory that intrigue me.  The car ride with the born again Christian and his guitar.  Zeitgeist bar with drinks featuring peach schnapps and underage drinkers.  The waltzing with costumed gentlemen who made me feel like a lady though the same people off the dance floor couldn't make me feel feminine for all the perfume in Persia.  Such sweet and delicious fragments of a life fully lived.  Corseted, drawn, pearled, and dressed.

I want to get my accordion out again.  I want to play the most dolorous version of "Amazing Grace" any human has ever churned out for their ungrateful neighbors.  I must wait until school starts again.  Can't do it while anyone is in the house.  This is something between me and "John"*  We have come a long way together.  He holds the key.  He has the fire for my spirit.  He speaks so much more eloquently and loudly than I am able to. 

Thinking of bards.  Thinking of story telling on the road.  On the move.  To restless settlers of all faiths.  Thinking of traditions of story telling.  Art.  The gifts without which mankind might still be thrumming its own big lips in the cave of darkness. 

Take your embraces where you may.  Take love when it honestly offers itself to you. 

Ah, I get it now- "Motherland" is a waltz.  That's one of the reasons the rhythm speaks so clearly to me.  I believe that all of life can be lived to a waltz.  Love, death, taxes: waltz.

I want to write someting into the sand.  I want to bend skin to my will.  I want to believe in the power of self discipline.  I want to believe in the power of myself.

I want to believe in a lot of things that are as run down as Christ.  I want to believe in so many things that are older than God.  I want to believe in so many things that include this wasted spirit of yours.  If I could build you new I would.  If I could build myself new, I would.

Ghost waltz through life and maybe you'll catch a spirit.

Maybe it will be your own.



 

*The metal name on my accordion.  Such a sad story.  "John" was a 15 year old accordion player who died on his birthday which is when his parents were going to give him his semi-professional accordion made custom for him in Italy.  He never got to play it but it's mine and treasured.  I don't do it justice stuck in the case.  I used to practice daily.  I miss it.  I miss the chords stirring my heart at close range, vibrating through the skin of my chest and filling my ears.