Darling, remember
When you come to me
I'm the pretender
And not what I'm supposed to be
But who could know if I'm a traitor
Time's the revelator

They caught the katy
And left me a mule to ride
The fortune lady
Came along, she walked beside
But every word seemed to date her
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Up in the morning
Up and on the ride
I drive into Corning
And all the spindles whine
And every day is getting straighter
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Leaving the valley
And ducking out of sight
I'll go back to Cali
Where I can sleep out every night
And watch the waves and move the fader
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Queen of the fakes and imitators
Time's the revelator

-Gillian Welch

How much are we products of the places we grow up? How much of this place do I carry with me, and in me? I look around my home town, or rather my home island, and I know I could never be satisfied to stay here. It is beautiful, both the land and the people, but small in the same ways. I look at the lives of the people here and become discontent. I do not want life in the way they have it. Don't get me wrong, on the whole there is nothing wrong with their lives, they are good and full. But I have seen more, and now this is not enough. But I wonder if I am really any different from these people I so easily pass judgement upon. Why should I think that I need something more than this place can offer? Is it simply in the seeing and the learning and the doing that one is driven further afield? If so, where am I to go?

The fog twists and swirls around me, blurring the line between my feet and the ground. Nothing feels solid, nothing seems quite there. I wonder how I ended up here, after seeing so clearly...
I want to leave, but that would mean I'd have to move away from the one spot I think I know and strike out into the greyness. It is cold and I am alone and afraid. I can hear a Voice, low and clear and sure, even through the fog. It beckons me toward it, offering reassurance and comfort, if only I would come and follow. I want to follow, know I'd follow wherever it lead - but qualified by a constant 'if'. If the fog first broke I and I could clearly see where I was headed. If I could be guaranteed that there would be no danger of new or further pain. But now, in this dimness, chill and damp, unsure of footing and way... I do want to follow, but that means I'd have to strike out into the unknown. What if I fell, I know not how far I would fall before coming to a bottom, in this confusion of the senses where I am not even sure of where my feet really are. And still the Voice, my sought-after, wept-for Love pleads for me and beckons...
"He'll come to me...He'll not leave me here..." My pride is my prop, my cane of black by which I feel my way to nowhere. I can see nothing beyond it's tip. The fog whirls and catches at my feet. I turn 'round and 'round seeking on my own for a clearing of the murk, a way in which to wander. Instead, it draws tighter, and the Voice grows a little faint. My heart aches at the realization. Peering through the thickening mistiness, a red candle flame flickers and dances, now hidden, now clear. He has not left me, but it is I who must come to Him, not He to me. Will I throw down my black cane which guides nothingness and despair? Will I be able to take the risk of walking in this fog that at times obscures even the red lamp and seems to dim the Light?

The fog catches and swirls as I lift my foot...

I found an old self of mine not long ago. Odd, but I don't remember ever taking it off, or leaving it behind. Apparently, I had left it in a book I started reading last summer. I opened the cover and noticed a wisp of it peaking out between some of the pages near the beginning. It looked a bit faded and somewhat crinkled, but not too much worse for the wear, or lack of wear I should say. I took it out and looked at it for a while trying to remember what I was like when last I wore it. Rather different, I think, though I couldn't say quite how. A bit sadder, mayhap, but steady. Content, no "content" is not the right word, accepting of the where and how things are for the time. Willing enough to change, but not activly seeking change for its own sake. And yet constatly seeking, longing after something almost inexpressible, captured in moonlight and shadow, the heady sent of the rose, the cool touch of fog and mist. I smiled slightly at the remembrance of it...
On an impulse, I slipped on that old self. It still fit. Oh, it felt different in a few places, but still familiar. Some of the rough spots I remembered are gone, a few of the corners and angles have been sharpened, but on the whole I feel - myself. Funny how that can happen. The slipping on of an old self is as easy as falling asleep, the tears still moist on your cheek and the damp of them soaking into your pillow, and waking the next morning. You see the world under a new, and at the same time, familiar light...

Though one thing about an old self that I have discovered is that once it goes on, it is very difficult to get off, so I think this one will be around for a while...

I built a sandcastle not long ago, beautiful as any dream ought to be. Tureted and crenelated, flags waving proudly in the winds and wispering in the soft breezes. It was all held together with laughter and long talks, adventures and explorations. Brave knights and lovely ladies would make visits while wending their errant ways. It was full of life...
My castle is falling now before my eyes, worn down by changing winds and salty waters... I watch as corners chip and break, as walls I thought sure and sturdy crack and threaten to crumble. The laughter isoften missing, the long talks held over and over in memory. The brave knights and lovely ladies come no more to share their adventures and exploratory finds. I wonder if it will stand for much longer, if its foundations were build upon something stronger than sand and dreams...
Yet I cannot hold it, for who can hold still the sands of time? The tighter I'd grasp them the sooner they would slip from my fingers. Better to let it go if it wills, treasuring the beauty of it as long as it remains. For the foundations may yet hold, withstanding wind and water. Life will fill it again...

(from last night)
For days now the wind has been whispering to me of impending end. "It comes," it breaths into my ears, echoing, seeping down into my heart. "Why speak to me of ends?" I plead. "They do not belong to me - I am but young..."
"Nay," comes the reply.
Sitting here on the sand, the echoes of a beginning come back to me. But the murmur of the winds words in the waves is louder and I cannot ignore it.
The sea is, as it always is to my ears, mourning the sorrows of the world. I think I know of no sound in nature so evoking of sorrow than the sea...

Now those sad currents are only in my head. Quiet night sounds blend with the music playing in the empty coffee shop. It too has a melancholy tenor. Or perhaps, I am simply projecting my humor upon the world at large. I am alone, and though missing one, content enough. It occurs to me that there is a difference between feeling alone and being lonely...the former is beyond one's own control, the latter has more to do with the will.

"End."
The almost silence presses upon me. I nod acquiescence within myself and move on.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the makings of an amazing cobweb. It bridges the span between the edge of the desk shelf and the wall, and is already beginning to collect dust... I wonder how long it will last, now that it has been pointed out...

Someday I want to be able to play with this passion...

The music I was playing was nowhere nearly as moving as that of one of India's greatest musicians whose stories I often heard while growing up. Sixteenth century Tansen was one of the jewels in the court of Mogul king Akbar. It's said that when Tansen played raga deepak (from Sanskrit, fire melody) things would heat up, literally, and the lamps in the king's court would begin to glow. When he played raga megh malhar (rain melody), raindrops would begin falling to bring relief from the heat.

For some reason though the urgency to play, to create the liquid beauty of sound and rhythm, has left me. I can not blame it on the heat (for it has not been hot), nor on the intensity of my daylight labors (for they are relatively light). I feel this lack of urgency in other areas as well. I have not yet finished a book, nor written much, nor wandered the hills... I feel tired, as if the school year were still weighing on me. Too many worries...