Here is a sample of my writing from a summer at the writing workshop at Sonad. This summer I will have the opportunity to run this workshop. I invite all who want to explore their writing from a musical perspective to join us this summer. You can learn more about the Summer Writing project and how to sign up by going here.
What you need to know about me: I’m a bassoonist and so a musician. Words and writing for me have always been about how words sound: the meter, the rhythm. We will explore the writings of those who celebrate and best demonstrate the ways that words describe our deepest expressions of self, how the performance can be reflected in the written word and most importantly have fun sharing our voice through text!
THE PIECE FROM 2014
Sweaty, menopausal woman. Shift. The shift of the eyes. Beads stream gently from her wig. Bulky clothes radiating heat on this a rush hour train. To sit next to her is to sweat too. She radiates heat. A pulsating heat that crinkles as she works through each bag to find her things: glasses, bible, handkerchief (sweat rag). For she is a lady. A true lady. A true bag lady that moves through this planet with distinction. She knows from whence she came and where she is to travel.
We all sweat, but she sweats. Bags, many bags, all organized bags. One overly used Sephora bag holds her bible and prayer materials. The eyes that tracked her surroundings now move rapidly on the page. With each line she shifts, she dabs. She dabs the sweat, gently, no makeup disturbed by the sweat, the water pouring. I watch her each morning, thinking she is in her own world.
Upon my return to a rush hour train one semester away.
“Where you been?” she says in that lullaby of a woman not born Still dabbing, make-up and uniform and bulky winter gear and the same plastic Sephora bag.
“College, I went to college.”
“Oh, that’s so nice. Good for you, CONGRATULATIONS!”
It’s the last time I see the streams, the plastic bag, the well postured, plump nurse with the large breasts. Looking, judging, taking notice. I know that I will become this for someone, someday. For so goes the pace of the city. But as she returns to her reading glasses and bible I wonder what would happen if I ripped off the wig. Would her sweat dissipate? Would she no longer need to dab? What would she do for the hour? How would she keep herself occupied? What would I call her? No longer sweaty menopausal woman, something else? Grandma, Mama, aunty in that singsong accent of the caribbean where our few words are a melody remembered long after the composer has past.
We, the children, are their melodies in motion. We, their children, return to remember from whence we came. We, their children, will honor them by dabbing when menopause comes. We, their children, will too find comfort in shifting eyes across pages. We, their children, will long for the days when sweat radiated and warmed us all 365 days a year.
Pursuing Call 