spread out and blur

{"I will save you my son" Ink, and Watercolor. 12" by 16"}

Some days, I walk out to the studio, turn on all the machines, and begin a violent boxing match. I throw punches and duck, move my hips, and lunge. Bite my own teeth. Somehow, on these days, music always seems to kick my ass. It knows the moves I intend, before I even think them. I turn the machines off, and back on. I make tea. I stretch. I play the other guitar. I grow more and more frustrated with each melody or sound that I cannot find. I try all of my old tricks, like playing two guitar parts backwards and one forward. I use the volume pedal. I put down the guitars, and try to sing. I drop the rules, and kick music in the balls, stealing words from Rilke. But Rilke’s ghost doesn’t like this, and things get worse. I grab my towel and wipe the blood. I let the studio remain silent today. Still.

I walk inside, grab my book, and sit down to read. Some days, I guess I’m not supposed to make anything. The world doesn’t want to hear a sound from me. I wish today that I could go fishing with Ben Jahn, and Christian Kiefer. We’d creep out onto the rocks, the slick granite, and tie the lures. We’d watch the brown trout erupt from the clear, snapping flies. We’d drink beer, and feel the bite of the sun, our backs red. The small, slick beasts would rise up on the line, jumping and shaking in the air. We would laugh and yell. We’d split them, and empty the guts into the water, watching it spread out and blur. Opaque. We’d light a fire back in the trees, and cook them in oil, then eat with our hands. Sleep with the moon. Summer; I await.

Posted by jeff pitcher at March 26, 2005 06:36 PM

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