I want intent and execution to circle the scrap like a murder of crows, to a tragicomic drop, a beloved mishandling that leaves a crack in it.
Why? Because my music acts as a weathervane, allows me to stuff it like a letter, with or without second thought into a bottleneck, swearing as I go, to leave on a wine-dark sea that is not my own for a stranger to find, uncork, and finally hear. And yet, that particular stranger might be you.
The body forgiven in its kindest favor, holds a mental acuity that it can manage — some sway — and perhaps some mistaken supplication of a dream with what the spirit wants. But a true, foretelling dream — one that comes in sleep and then is murky — never leaves without a trace.
Photo by Michelle Arcila-Opsvik