Lately, I think of returning again to the public voice. By this I mean maintaining a blog (word I hate viscerally) - a collection of essays, however essentially private with limited readership, which are intended for public viewing. I wonder who I might be if I thought less about the way that person was received? I like to imagine myself above such worries, but the fact remains that I tend to censor her more often than I invite her to sing. Plus, I spend an inordinate amount of time criticizing what she is wearing and worrying that people will think she’s a whore. She’s such a passionate and loving being, its hard to imagine that she won’t be at least partly misunderstood.
Fuck it. Just let her sing. Pour a second glass of wine and listen and feel how the most magnificent beauty is often that which nurtures itself in darkness and shadow, emerging only occasionally in full sun to let all present know what they have - in their day-driven smugness and sense of the surety of outlines unmarred by this fading light - been missing.
Let it be known, then: they have been missing a lot. I have been waiting for a long time, and am no longer patient. Rather, I perch wild as a lion on a sandstone cliff, surveying all before me and wanting with a primal urgency that I can no more explain than I can realize, to know completely.
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